


Answer Me This

by OberonsEarring



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Lost Love, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OberonsEarring/pseuds/OberonsEarring
Summary: Logan joins Scott on a mission and discovers a secret that could tear his world apart.
Relationships: Jean Grey/Scott Summers, Logan (X-Men)/Scott Summers
Comments: 104
Kudos: 66





	1. Intros and Eel

They met in one of the secret groves of Krakoa, a place that the island didn't know about, that Xavier nor Jean knew about. Naked, down to the hilt, they met each other in a final understanding of who they were to each other. 

Wolverine was always the first to lunge forward, his mouth capturing the taller mutant's collar bone and neck. Scott was slower to oblige, his thoughts still on his wife, but the more Logan sucked and supped at his fresh, clean skin, the lower he knelt. 

Bent to knee, Scott would hold on to his secret lover, his arms wrapped around the hair-dusted arms of Logan, broad with muscles and warm to the touch. He would sip at lips, softly, as if he'd never kissed before. Logan, however, was more eager, ready to pounce to get it over with.

The only reason he stayed himself was because of Scott.

Scott liked foreplay.

Logan licked the length of neck, his lips stumbling upon ear lobe and pulse. Hands at chest, he massaged the muscles underneath his fingers, eliciting the quietest of moans from his lover. They were used to being quiet. But, on Krakoa, they could let go. They could hide themselves in a world built only for them.

And Logan loved it when Scott was loud.

They made love here, in this secret grove, their hearts simpatico, and their thoughts only on each other. The world melted away. 

They woke in the evening, with Scott frantically trying to find his clothes. “I'm late,” he said. A meeting, with the Quiet Council. “Again.” 

Logan froze in place, knowing what it meant. “You died two days ago.”

“The Five brought me back.”

“They should give you time.”

Scott didn't appreciate the pitiful look he received from his lover. Didn't give recognition to the worry or hesitance. Like with Jean, he didn't give in to those things. He was solid, concrete. Impermeable. “I'll be okay,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Logan. 

Standing naked, the shorter mutant pressed himself into his clothed partner, the wash of fear paling his coarse features. “They should be more careful with you,” he whispered. 

Scott kissed the top of his head, wrangled his hand through thick black hair, and left the grove. Wolverine wasn't happy. “This is a mission I have to do alone,” Cyke revealed. “I'll be back.”

The looks that Scott received when he entered the Council Chamber were not pleasant, though for different reasons. Jean and Emma avoided his gaze, Magneto quirked a brow and frowned. “You're late,” Xavier spoke, his disapproval evident. “You're slipping in your duties, Cyclops.”

“Apologies, sir,” he replied without emotion. “I'll do better.”

Charles' blue eyes lingered on the Captain Commander, narrowing just slightly, just enough to let Cyclops know that he knew something was wrong. But, Scott had no tells and gave nothing away. The older man took a subtle glance at Jean who still continued to avert her gaze. “You must reassess your priorities, Scott. Krakoa must come first.”

“Yes, sir,” Scott replied, willing his heart into a steady beat as his memories quickly flashed back to the man's death and his role in it. 

“What happened on your mission, Cyclops?” Magneto asked. “You have given us no information.”

Scott stood in front of the Quiet Council retelling the events that had led up to his death two days ago. His run in with the slavers, how he tried to rescue the mutants, how they shot him down. He could tell by the look on Charles' face that he knew there were missing details. Cyclops was far more detailed than this, nor was he good at lying. The Captain Commander was thankful that Apocalypse stepped in before Xavier could question him further. “How many slaves are in their grasp?”

“Several hundred, from what I could see. But, from what I learned, the mutants are kept indoors, used for experiments.”

“So, humans and mutants then?” Apocalypse asked, his finger and thumb slowly rubbing against his chin. Scott nodded. “I take it you plan on saving them both?”

“Yes. That is my plan.”

Apocalypse looked to Magneto, then to Xavier, watched them nod. He loathed this – their weakness to the cause. If it were up to him, the humans would die, but it was not. The Quiet Council all had votes, and as the vote was called, he was the only one who saw the humans as their enemies. 

“You'll need a team,” Storm said, chin resting on elegant fingers. 

“No,” Scott replied. “A team will put the prisoners at even greater risk. This is a solo mission --”

“I'll be his team.” Logan stood at the entrance to the Council room, his costume on, his jaw steeled.

“Logan --”

“Don't want to hear it, Slim. You ain't going this one alone.”

Cyclops shook his head, argued with the Council until Magneto finally told him that it was not his station to argue with the will of the Quiet Council. The matter had been voted on, and he was there to follow orders. “We're not at war, Cyclops,” the older man reminded him. “Therefore, you are not in charge.”

Giving Logan an unseen sideways glance, he nodded his head and left the room. Wolverine followed quickly after him. “I want to help, Scott,” he said, tugging at the man's arm. “I don't want you to die.”

“I'm not going to die,” Scott huffed, exasperated with the older mutant's worry. He'd never worried like this before, and Scott hated it. “And even if I do, The Five will bring me back. There's no need for you to come--”

“Except now the Council says I have to,” he smiled – a cheeky thing that clipped only half his face. Scott shook his head again, near fuming, but having no other choice since the Council had cast their vote. “You're really that upset with me?”

“Let's just go.” Scott ushered forward, grabbing several gate flowers on his way. Softly scented and lilac colored, the beautiful blooms were stashed safely in his pouch. “Promise me,” he said before opening the portal. 

“Promise you what?”

“That you won't say a word to anyone about what you see.” Dumbfounded, Logan cocked his head to the right, scrunching his face so that it was obvious that he was confused. “Logan, even your thoughts must be guarded. At all times.”

Logan could tell that he was serious – Cyclops' leader tone, or so he had come to know it over the years. And though confused, he learned to take that tone seriously. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever. I promise. Keep it to myself.”

They disappeared into the portal, the flower becoming bright and outrageous. Lights and sounds, the eternity of their import. Logan hated this. Even from the moon to Krakoa proper. It made him queasy and on edge, but for Scott, he was willing to go through anything. 

They arrived in Madripoor some moments later, a place that Wolverine was wholly familiar with. He gave a questioning look to Scott, but the Captain Commander ignored him and began walking down the sloping streets of the island of mayhem. “We shouldn't be here, Cyke,” Logan eventually said, noticing the eyes upon the pair from all around, but Cyclops was not deterred. Keeping his silence, he walked through the raining streets until he came to a small, ramshackle apartment building.

“Let me do the talking,” he told Logan before taking the stairs into the basement of the building. The stairs were small, crowded. Barely enough room for either man to traverse without bumping their shoulders on the wall. Already, Logan could smell the smoke and sting of alcohol.

“This isn't the type of place you tend to frequent, Boy Scout,” Logan said, placing his hand firmly on the doorknob before Scott could turn it. “Tell me what we're doing here.”

“You'll find out,” Cyke assured him, “Just remember to let me do the talking.” Wolverine was still not convinced, blocking the door with his own body. “Logan,” Cyclops said – an admonishment that made the shorter mutant even more intent.

“Tell me what's going on,” he said. “Tell me what you're doing here.” Logan knew Madripoor like the back of his hand – the streets and alleys, the intelligence, the mercenaries. Once part of the inner workings, he was able to discern what was safe and what wasn't, and he knew without a doubt that their journey here wasn't safe. “Look,” he said, his hand upon Cyclops' chest. “You need to explain this to me. I need to head this off.”

“There's nothing to head off,” Cyclops replied, adamant that his journey to this small room in the basement went undiscovered by onlookers and thieves. He was naive. Naive and obsolescent. “We're fine, Logan. She won't hurt us.”

Logan was struck by the word 'she', an ominous feeling shaking down his spine. He continued to bar the door until Cyclops threatened him with an optic blast to the chest. Relenting, the older man released the knob and stepped out of the way.

He heard the crack before he could see anything – a loud burst of sound and the sudden fall of his lover before him. Wolverine swept into action, locating the attacker in the darkness, lunging forward, and stabbing the floor on either side of the person's head. “Please,” he hears the slight whimper. “Please, don't hurt me.”

“Who are you?” he said into the darkness, barely making out the crying form beneath him.

“Abbie Roth.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I didn't know where else to go. This was the safehouse. A long time, he said to come here, so I came here. I didn't know what to do. I had to get out of there before they found me again. Please, please, don't make me go back there.”

“Go back where and who?”

“The slavers and Cyclops of the X-men. I didn't mean for him to die, but he wouldn't ask me. He wouldn't ask me anything. I begged him to, and then he died, and now I don't know what to do.” 

Logan eased back – though he did not yet remove his claws – and took in the darkened scene beneath him. The smell of liquor, of blood. Cigarette smoke. Fear. The woman beneath him didn't move, not even an inch. “What'd Cyke want with you?”

“To keep the world safe.”

“From what?”

“Me.”

“Wolverine, that's enough,” Scott's harsh reprimand came just seconds before the showering of light from above. Over his shoulder, Logan viewed Scott at the light switch, a curious, wary look on his face. “Please. No more questions.”

“Why?” But, Scott refused to answer.

“Why?” he asks again, turning this time to Abbie Roth.

“You don't have to answer that.”

“My m-mutant power,” she stuttered, struggling with her captor. The overwhelming scents of fear and alcohol backed Logan off, but he was not yet done with his interrogation, and Abbie knew it.

“What's your mutant power?”

“Logan, please, stop this. This isn't -”

“Stay out of this, Scott. She damn near killed you, and I want to know why. What's your mutant power?”

“I know the answer to any question you ask.”

The red beam struck the back of Logan's neck, bouncing off of adamantium spine, then the wall before changing direction again and beaming back towards the shorter mutant's forehead. Knocked back to the ground, Wolverine growled while Cyclops pulled Abbie from the floor. “I said that was enough,” he rebuked, his face unchanged by the anger in his voice. “Leave her alone.” Angered, confused, Wolverine rose to his haunches, claws still bared. He watched as Scott pushed the woman behind him, hand on lenses, ready to blast again if necessary. “She's not an enemy,” he finally said, voice softer, hoping to soothe the other man's wired senses. 

“She's a drunk,” Logan quickly pointed out.

“It dulls her mutation,” Cyke bit back, still keeping Abbie behind him. 

“She's injured.”

“Yes.”

“She needs a doctor.”

Scott studied the woman for long moments – the missing fingernails, the cuts and bruises and burns. The torture had been severe, worse than he'd first imagined. “I'll fix her up. Come on,” he said, his hand on Roth's shoulder. He led her to the tiny table in front of the kitchenette – a small thing barely big enough for the two of them to take a seat, and had her sit while he went into the bathroom for medical supplies. 

Abbie took another slug from her bottle, whoozing ever so slightly in her chair. She glanced at Wolverine and then quickly away. “Any question?” he asked quietly so that Scott couldn't hear him. Reluctantly she nodded. 

Before he could say anything else, Cyclops reappeared with the medical kit and an armful of bandages. He started first with the gash on her side – a ten inch long, deep scar that bled through his already soaked field dressing – a piece of his uniform and tape that he'd pulled from his belt. He was meticulous with the cleaning and dressing of her wounds, taking his time with the stitches to make sure no more pain was inflicted than necessary. Logan watched, near mesmerized by it all, the silence, the tension, the reservations that he could see on Scott's face. He was worried. No, not worried. He was terrified, and that made Wolverine nervous. “Got any food here?” he asked.

“In the pantry. MRE's,” Roth slurred, and then shook her head in disappointment.

“Please, Logan,” Scott begged, looking up with a tender look. “Don't ask anymore questions.”

The MRE's were exactly where Abbie had said they were, covered with dust and a slight film of mildew on the outside. They were older versions – meals that hadn't been touched in ages. “Who--,” he stopped himself and handed the packages to Scott.

“Chicken and dumplings sounds like a good, comforting meal,” he said after little thought. “Or, meatloaf might sober you up a touch.”

Roth understood the meaning and nodded. “Chicken,” she said.

“I guess I'll take the meatloaf, then,” Scott said with a smile.

For himself, Logan chose sweet and sour pork, though he soon regretted it. He wanted to talk, to find out about this new mutant, but he could only think in questions. He didn't have Scott's mind for that kind of thing – worming around words – so he stood silently in the kitchen listening to them.

“I watched you die,” Roth said, head hung low. 

“Mutants don't have to fear death anymore,” Cyclops answered – a comment that sent shivers down Logan's spine. “We have the Five. They'll bring us back.” 

Her dark eyes widened, brows quirked upwards. “Don't let them bring me back,” she said, her voice hoarse. Again, Logan could smell the fear in her.

“Don't worry. I won't.” He took great care to clean her nail beds, the grit and dirt of a two day journey to Madripoor, and then finally, looked at her again. “Tell me when you're up for talking.”

“Not right now,” she said. “I just want to not think for a while.” She reached out for the vodka, but a quick look at Scott and she withdrew. “It's easier this way.” And though she said it, she stayed her hand anyway. 

“Scottie-boy has that effect on people,” Logan joked, hoping that she could move past their introduction to each other. To prove his point, he grabbed the bottle himself and took a drink, much to Cyke's admonishment. Abbie almost smiled. 

“There,” Scott said and folded up the rest of the bandages. “I think I got them all.”

Covered in bandages and salve, she looked beaten, worn down, exhausted. The dark circles under her eyes, the swelling of her lids. She was a mutant in trouble – a mutant who didn't want to be in trouble. “How did--” Logan stopped himself once again, still unsure of how to talk to her. He looked at Cyke and shook his head.

“It takes time,” Scott admitted. “It'll get easier.”

“You never had any problems with it,” Roth slurred. “You've never asked me a single question.” It was a dare – a challenge – to Wolverine, a reaction to his treatment of her just hours ago. And one that Wolverine was not up to. 

Rummaging through the pantry, he looked through the MRE's again and shrugged. “I should get something decent to eat,” he said, glancing at both Scott and Abbie's unfinished meals. “I know a good eel place.” 

“That sounds good,” Scott answered. “So does whiskey.” That was when Wolverine knew that his lover was in turmoil over this.

Logan left without a word more, venturing out into the streets of Madripoor. There were some on-lookers, people who may have recognized him, but no one bothered him. 

The eel shack was not far away – a shanty of a business with two gas lights over the oak wood eaves. It reminded the feral mutant very much of Edo. The way they nailed the eels to the board, the way they skinned them, skewered them. And the smell – it was far better than the tiny room that he'd just come from and the MRE's that they'd tried to consume. 

He was careful going back to the house – well aware of his reputation in Madripoor, along with the reputation of Hydra who still controlled the place. It would be too easy for him to lead a spy back to Cyke's safehouse and see them captured. Or killed. Or whatever Hydra would do to the three of them. They weren't safe here, but he knew Scott intended to stay – at least until he got his info from Roth. 

Abbie was in the middle of another drink and Cyclops was absent when Wolverine returned. He could smell his lover in the bedroom – probably cleaning things up before he tucked the woman into bed. But, he doubted that Roth would make it that far – as much liquor as she'd consumed in the time he was gone, he was surprised she hadn't passed out right on the table. “Scott. Dinner.”

Scott took a whiff as he entered the room, his stomach growling at the smell. Logan quirked a brow before shaking his head. “You should have told me. I would have gone earlier.”

Roth swooned as the box was placed before her. She hadn't had a meal like this in years – not since Scott had put her up in Taiwan at that metal factory. “It was a good place to work,” she slurred. “Until my visa ran out.” Gone was the wash of fear that had plagued her earlier, and now it was just sadness. 

“How many--” Logan stopped himself. He took several beats, reorganizing his thoughts. Abbie watched him curiously. “You've lived in a lot of places,” he finally said, figuring out the rhythm to his speech. 

Abbie nodded, but not happily. “Taiwan was the safest I've ever been,” she said, lighting a cigarette from the pack on the table. Inhaling deep, she rubbed the edge of the cancer stick on the edge of the ashtray, narrowing down the ember to a sharp point. “No one talked to me. No one found me. And, the food was really good.” It was a confession that made Scott dip his head. “I wish I could've stayed.”

“I'll find a place for you,” Cyclops said quietly. 

Abbie smiled. “Maybe.” Drawing in another puff, she stabbed the cigarette out, and whoozed in her chair again. “I think I need to go to bed.”

“I fixed up the bedroom--” Scott began.

“No. The couch is fine for me. You two take the room.” She stumbled getting up from her chair, and Scott caught her by the shoulders. He helped her make it to the sofa, draping a dull blue blanket over her and returned to the kitchen. 

Sitting at the table with Wolverine, he took a bite of the eel – which was still slightly warm. “Thank you,” he said. 

“No problem.”

They ate in silence for some time, with Logan pouring them each a shot of whiskey to ease the tension in the room. Scott gulped it down in seconds and allowed his lover to pour him another. “I rescued her from the slavers,” Scott finally spoke. “I have to find out what she told them.” 

“Do you think she betrayed you?”

“No, not on purpose. It's part of her mutation. She _has_ to answer questions. They tortured her for no reason.” 

He'd known Roth since he was 15. An investigation that turned into a rescue operation. Kim Industries – an up and coming tech firm – was creating weapons that rivaled that of Stark Industries. The weapons were deadly, and their tech far too futuristic to be believed. The professor had sent him to investigate, which is when he discovered Abbie at the center of it all. They prodded for information, asking meticulous questions about microchips and blueprints. In the end, Scott put forth a plan of action that not only saved Roth from Jai Kim – the owner of the firm – but also destroyed the place and all of it's futuristic weapons. 

“Why didn't you take her to Chuck? He could have --”

“I didn't trust him.”

Wolverine's reaction was beyond surprised. Wide-eyed, mouth open, he stared at Cyclops, amazed that those words came out of his mouth. A sneaky grin slipped across his face. “Well, well, well. The Boy Scout didn't always have faith in the good Professor.”

“I still don't,” Scott admitted shamefully. “Not with her. Not with her powers.”

“Chuck has done good by you and --”

“You don't understand the implications of her powers, do you?” 

Logan watched as Scott's face shifted from guilt to steel-hard resolve. “I guess not,” he said, pouring them each another shot and leaning back in his chair. “Explain it to me.”

“How do I achieve peace?” Scott looked at Logan waiting for recognition, but none came. “That would be all he needed to ask, and she would give him every step, every detail of that process.”

“Things change --”

“Not for her. She knows the definitive answer.”

“So? Peace isn't a bad thing. It's what we're all after.”

“What if that peace included a war? What if it included razing the Earth? Or killing those in power? What if that was the only way to achieve it?”

“Chucklehead's not going to start a war--”

“Then you have more faith in him then I do.” Scott took the shot, shivering as the alcohol burned down his throat. “He's not perfect, Logan. He's made his mistakes.”

Logan shook his head, pouring his glass completely full. “That still doesn't mean he would take advantage of her mutation.”

“Are you sure about that? Look at how easy it was for you.”

The statement gave Logan pause. Indeed, it had been easy. And though he could see the anxiety he'd caused the woman, he kept on going. “I think you're missing the big picture, Cyke. With her at our side, Krakoa would never fall prey to humans again. We'd be safe. We'd never --”

“And you trust Xavier, Magneto, and Apocalypse with her powers? You don't think for a second that they would use her to further their own means? And then there's the others. What would they ask her? How many lives would change in an instant because she could give them all the answers? How many battles would we fight because of those questions, and big of a rift would her powers cause us?” 

As the truth settled in over Wolverine, he glanced to sofa where Abbie lightly snored. She looked like a normal human – someone you'd see on the streets, someone you'd ignore. Pudgy because of alcohol, short, stringy hair and bags under her eyes, he couldn't imagine how someone like her could change the world. But, he was wrong.

The curiosity, the knowledge. He could think of a thousand questions to ask her – both harmless and cruel. How to keep Scott safe, how to defeat the Hulk, how to rid the world of evil, how to protect mutants. And then other things – like going back in time to the day that he drowned his son. How could he prevent that, and more importantly, how to tame that wild child into something less angry, less needful for revenge. So many things ran rampant through his head that he didn't hear Scott speaking to him. 

“Logan?” A soft touch to hair-dusted arm. 

“You're right,” Logan said when he came back to reality. “Her power's too dangerous.”

“Let's get some sleep,” Cyclops yawned. “It'll be a long day, so we need our rest.”


	2. A Game of Maps and Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie finally begins to reveal what knowledge she has of the slavers. Cyclops and Logan don't always see eye to eye.

Wolverine woke to a cold bed. The visage of Scott and his ultimate warmth gone. From the sheets, the blankets. There' was nothing left – not even a scent – to remind him that he'd spent the night in bed with Scott Summers. That was when he realizes that Cyclops hadn't slept. That he'd laid down, yes, but he hadn't stayed the night. At some point he'd gotten up – made coffee or tea – and stayed up to watch over Abbie Roth.

Rubbing his forehead, Logan walked into the tiny kitchenette, glancing at Scott and his mug of hot coffee. It gave him hope – that there was something warm and inviting that he could sup on while the both of them waited for Abbie to rise. “Do you want fried rice?” Logan asked, willing to venture into the open to get better food than the MRE's. 

“That sounds unappetizing,” Scott replied, a gulp of instant coffee and a grimace thereafter. “Omelets would be more my speed.”

“What do you think she wants?”

“Omelets and a Bloody Mary.” 

Logan laughed. It wasn't often that Scott thought about a hangover, but here he was, staring at Roth, imagining the pain that she must be in. Maybe something more spicy,” Wolverine suggested. “Pig's blood soup.”

It was a rare askance, but one that Logan understood. It was a delicious dish, one that Wolverine had turned Scott onto some years ago while in the rural villages of Taiwan looking for a little mutant boy who'd run away. One that he, himself, had partaken of multiple time in order to defeat the pull of whiskey and vodka and whatever else he'd partaken of. “How about both?” Cyke asked, making sure that Abbie was not awake yet. “Soup and eggs. She's bound to get sober from one of them.”

Logan nodded. He looked down at his lover, an earnest look set against his jaw. 

“Thank you, Logan,” he said, his voice so much like a lullaby. 

A kiss to his partner's cheek, he disappeared without a word.

He wasn't supposed to be up so early. He realized that far after he'd left them both. Or, perhaps, Cyke had thought she'd be up earlier than what she was. Either way, it left One-eye in an awkward position, one that he didn't envy – sending Scott out to look for food while they waited for his drunk friend to wake up, or allowing his lover to spend a few minutes extra in bed. Thankfully, Logan had solved the problem all on his own by deciding to go himself.

As much as he wanted them to, eggs just didn't call to him. Though he saw them being flipped in cast iron pans, in soups, in curries, there was nothing about the egg stands that made him hungry. Instead, he settled on kimchi fried rice, figuring that the spice would wake Abbie out of her drunken spell, and the soup. He wanted her to talk to Cyke. He needed her to talk to Cyke.

Heading back to that small, smoke-filled room, he could hear them already – their quiet conversation. It was about nothing in particular, though about everything all at once. Her past five years in the factory that he'd found for her, her 'friends', her bosses. She'd been happy there, on that midnight shift with twenty people. They didn't talk to her, and she got paid good money, which meant extra booze and cigarettes, rented movies and moments of going to town to buy special soaps and perfumes. “I liked him,” she said of a man that she'd worked with for almost three years. “He didn't speak English very well, but I liked him.”

It was rare for Abbie to talk with such sentimentality. It was a condition that she could rarely afford, especially with Jai Kim still on the hunt for her. “I'm assuming that he found you,” Cyclops said, pouring the woman another cup of coffee. She plopped the proffered aspirin into her mouth and sipped at the coffee to wash it down before nodding. “Then he sold you to the slavers.” 

“Kim had no idea where I was. Your ID papers were really thorough.”

Cyclops thought for a moment, taking a sip of his own coffee. He looked at Logan as he came through the door, gave him a nod of acknowledgment. Wolverine laid the procured breakfast out on the table and watched as Abbie greedily ate the soup, not caring what it was made of. 

Scott leaned back in his chair, picking at the rice. Spicy food was not his forte, but he understood the need for it. Logan went to speak, stopped himself once again and puzzled over forming a statement. “I'd like to listen in,” he finally said. “I can help you if I know more about what's going on.”

“It's up to Abbie,” Scott explained. 

Roth shrugged. “Fine with me, so long as you don't try to stab me again.” 

Breakfast, then more coffee and aspirin, and finally it was time to talk again. “It's hard to imagine how the slavers found you,” Scott said calmly. He was good at this, talking to her.

“Sentinel tech,” she answered, a slight quiver in her voice. “A smaller one – mansized. It walked right into the factory and pinpointed me in an instant. I didn't even have time to run.”

“Sounds like a Nimrod,” Scott spoke, his own worry creeping up on him.

Roth shook her head. “No. Nothing that advanced.” She remembered the Nimrods from Utopia – the way they looked on television - and this unit was nothing like them. “It's just a smaller casing. But they made a big deal about it in the news. I remember there being a few TV crews when they drug me out. I think that's when Kim stepped in.”

“The slavers must have welcomed him.” Scott is unnerved by her smile. 

“They asked me if he could be trusted.” 

Cyke couldn't contain his look of surprise. “The truth must have been hard for them to hear.”

“That he would betray them in the end, yes. And, how he would do it. That he'd capture me, use me to take them down, and then take over their operations earning money for himself. He had contacts already – places to sell the slaves, black markets, stuff like that. All he needed was to ask me a few questions. I don't know what happened to him after that.” 

In many ways, hearing this was a relief to Cyclops, that Kim had been stopped. He allowed his thoughts to flurry with a touch of hope that she could finally find a normal life now that Kim was gone, but he also knew that that hope was dangerous. Roth would always be hunted. Her powers were that devastating. 

They talked through the morning, with Abbie explaining what she had seen at the compound – how the slaves were kept, the mutants that they were experimenting on. She described rows of cages and hospital beds, machines that pumped air into mutant lungs, measured heartbeats, and the constant thrum of MRI's and CT scans. Blood, saliva, urine, skin and hair – all of these samples were collected, put into centrifuges, spun and read like books detailing DNA sequences and the possible end of mutants. They had asked her how to end mutants, and her answer was to destroy Krakoa.

It was shock to both men, and the shame of her answer tipped her head to the table where she whimpered so slightly. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't want to tell them anything. Really, Scott. I couldn't stop it. I just couldn't -”

“It's okay,” Scott shushed. “I know how your powers work. I know that you can't help it. I'm not angry. I just need to know what you told them. I need time to work things out before they can enact their plan.”

“I'm tired,” Roth whined, folding her arms on the table and resting her head upon them. Her tears moistened her arms as her thoughts were flooded with the terrible things that she had revealed during her torture.

Scott pushed forward. “Please, Abbie. I need to know what you told them. I'm not mad. I'm not disappointed, but I need to know. I need --”

“I'm tired,” she repeated, a deep breath through mucus filled nose. She was crying, more and more. Shame, guilt. She didn't want to let Scott down. The one person who had kept her safe. She was ashamed at the questions she'd answered.

“I think it's time we take a break.” Logan placed a soft hand on Scott's shoulder, offered to get lunch while the woman rested. 

Scott was always surprised at how soft-hearted Logan actually was, how empathetic he was, even when he didn't know a person very well. It was one of the things that Cyke loved about him – that enduring ability to reach across the folds, to connect. It was something that Cyclops often struggled with. Trusting his partner, he nodded, told Roth to take a nap while they scavenged for lunch. Though Scott was worried about making too much of a presence in Madripoor, he also agreed that the MRE's were old – past their expiration date. “She'd been there for five years,” he explained. “I didn't think we'd have this problem anymore.”

Logan could see the disappointment on the Captain Commander's face – the way his mouth drew down, the tension just beneath his dark red lenses. And for it, he cupped the man's face, drew him in, and placed a gentle kiss on pale lips. “She's lucky to have you,” he said. “She's lucky that you've kept her safe so far.”

“I wouldn't call her lucky.” 

A kiss to the top of his lover's head, and Wolverine broke away to find them lunch. “You need to restock your safe houses more often,” he told Scott with a smile.

“I love you. You know that, right?”

Logan grinned.

Logan returned to a silent house and the absence of Scott. Judging by the scent of his shampoo still in the air, he'd left only twenty minutes prior.

Abbie snored softly on the sofa, her pack of cigarettes and mostly empty bottle of vodka providing little relief to older mutant. Madripoor was too dangerous, even for someone like Cyclops. Especially for someone like Cyclops. Half the world still hated him, the other half wanted him dead. For him to be gone this long caused a great deal of worry. 

Coffee made, he watched over Roth as she continued to nap. Curled up like a cat, her body twisted into an impossible position, Logan could tell by the beating of her heart that she would wake soon, and that worried him. He still hadn't mastered how to talk to her. And, more importantly, the temptation to ask her questions loomed over him like a shadow. 

Her breathing came to fullness, and shortly after, her eyes opened – bleary as they were. She coughed, rubbed her face, and groaned as she sat up on the sofa. Unsure, she looked at Wolverine. “Do you-- Would--” He held up the packet of coffee mix and she nodded, dragging herself to the small table by the kitchenette. She laid her head on her arms, her head pounding and sluggish. 

Logan pushed two aspirin across the table along with a glass of water. She thanked him, her voice meek and unsteady. Together, they drank their cups in silence. He granted her another, realizing early on that her condition was pretty bad, and another two aspirin to go along with it. “You should cut down on the drinking,” he said quietly.

She nodded, understanding full well what he meant. But, she also knew that he had no idea what her life was like. “It inhibits my powers,” she said. “I don't see as many details.”

“Cyke said as much.”

“Well, I'm saying it now.” The nightmares of her torture glistened in her eyes. “It's easier. It makes me feel normal.”

“You ain't normal when you're drunk, doll --”

“Neither are you.” She could smell the alcohol on him already. “What? He leaves you for five minutes, and you drown yourself in anything that you can find? Is that what it is?”

“You don't know shit about me.”

“I know enough to know that you love him.”

The silence that followed lasted far too long, the tension rising between the two. Logan's thoughts swarmed with questions again – questions to antagonize her, to beat her down, to get his revenge. But, he stayed himself. Scott would be unhappy if he came back and she was in a state. Instead, he made more coffee. “You need to talk to Cyke this afternoon,” he grumbled, leaning back in his chair. She nodded. “You need to tell him everything.” 

She looked down at the table and nodded again, shame turning her red. She would give anything for another bottle of vodka right now, but she also knew that Summers would disapprove. 

An hour passed. More coffee; Scott's lunch got cold, and the threat of dinner was pushing upon them. Logan ventured to the bedroom to find a the pack of jerky that Scott kept in his utility belt. Abbie noshed on several pieces at a time. They weren't happy together – Roth distrusting and Logan skeptical. It was their introduction all over again. 

It was five PM before Scott showed his face again – a hefty dinner in hand – and a relieved look on his face. He didn't explain his absence. Didn't tell the two of them what he'd been up to, but Logan could tell that he'd accomplished something, and for that, he bought them a celebration. Eel and crispy duck, vodka and whiskey, sides of fried rice and sushi, seaweed soup and squid salad. Scott knew his Asian meals and knew how to select them. 

They ate in silence, that was until Abbie reached for the vodka. “Not yet,” Cyclops told her. “We need to talk first.” Again, she ducked her head and nodded, shoveling forkfuls of rice into her gullet. There were tears – solemn, regretful – that dripped from her cheeks into her food. Her dark brown eyes barely flickered up into Scott's visor, afraid of what she would see beyond the red. “Abbie, I'm not angry.” His words did no good. 

It was Logan who offered her the shot – a way to get herself to relax. He pulled out the large piece of paper from Cyclops' things and spread it out on the table. Scott had already started the map of the compound – from the slaves' barracks outside the main building, to the tunnels and pipes he had taken to get inside to rescue Roth. “We need more details,” Logan said, shaking the bottle back and forth before her. “Once Slim's satisfied, you can destroy your brain all you want.”

“And, I need to know what you told them about Krakoa,” Scott said quietly. 

It was late when they finally decided to take a break. Between Scott's recollections and Abbie's memories, the map had taken a fine shape. In the borders, the Captain Commander had noted times and rotations, cameras and their movements, weapons, firepower. The place was an impenetrable fortress, or so Logan had said many times, but Scott knew better. He'd already been in the base. He knew how to get in there. It was just a matter of getting out.

Roth reached for the bottle of vodka. Logan grabbed it first. “She hasn't answered questions about Krakoa yet, Slim,” he barked. The woman rolled her eyes.

“It's okay,” Scott eased. “We'll talk more tomorrow.”

The woman forced the bottle from Wolverine's loosened grip and gulped it down. “I don't want you to hate me,” she said quietly. 

A large hand on hers, Scott shook his head. “That won't happen. I promise.”

There was silence as Abbie started to drink herself into a stupor. Logan called dibs on the whiskey, pouring himself a nice full glass and Scott a partial one. A toast to good planning and staying alive was made, a bit of small talk, and Roth was off to bed.

“It takes her a long time to trust people,” Scott explained. He'd noticed the tension between the two. “But, hopefully, you won't have to deal with her anymore after this. And, even more hopefully, neither will I.”

“That Jai Kim fellow?”

“Yeah.” The one-time billionaire had fallen on very hard times after a teen aged Scott destroyed his files and took Roth away. He'd hunted her, but with Scott always five moves ahead, she'd avoided capture for nearly twenty years. “He's made her life hell.”

“You think the slavers killed him?”

Scott shrugged, preferring not to think of a man's murder as a solution to a problem. He poured the whiskey himself, sipping at it politely while Logan took the whole cup in in just a matter of seconds. He sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before taking another bite of rice. Blue eyes glanced over the hand-drawn map still spread across the table. “You need a team for this, Slim.”

Still, the taller mutant refused. “It's dangerous enough that you know about her.”

“No one's getting in here, Scottie.” Logan knocks his adamantium laced skull just to prove the point. “Only time they get into my thoughts is when I let them.”

“Maybe,” he said with a sympathetic smile, “but it takes more than metal to block someone like Jean or Xavier. Trust me. When they want to know something --”

“You've lived your life dealing with psychics. I've lived mine learning how to keep secrets. Trust me, Scott. No one's going to find out.”

Scott watched the older man carefully, swirling his drink before taking another sip. “You understand why there can be no team, right?” Wolverine nodded. But, Cyclops was not done proving his point. “One question could destroy the world. Just like one question is going to destroy Krakoa.”

“And you're not going to raise the alarm?”

Cyclops shook his head. “It's too risky.”

“They deserve to know, Scott.”

“No, they don't. If it's Krakoa or the entire world, I'm choosing the world.”

It was by far a different situation than the two men had had in earlier times. Opposite sides, really. Then, Scott was doing anything and everything to keep mutants alive – be it a black ops team or telling a child to make the choice between fighting or hiding. Wolverine had been adamant then that Cyclops was wrong – that his drive to protect them all was going to drive them into war. 

But, now? 

They had once again taken opposite sides, with Scott wishing to protect the world, and Logan wanting to protect Krakoa.

“I have a theory,” Scott said after a very long silence and the emptying of his cup. He waited for Logan to fill it half-way before continuing. “She can't see past death.”

“What?” Roth's powers were still a ball of yarn for him – confusing and wound too tightly to be understood. 

Scott smiled – one of those smiles that said he'd figured out a puzzle, or found a clue, or at the very least knew something that Wolverine didn't. “She was surprised to see me, Logan. Both times. She thought I'd died.”

“So?”

“That means I can stop this without involving anyone else. They don't know about the Five. They obviously didn't ask the right questions, or she, herself, would have known.” Logan still doesn't get it, and Scott takes his hand. “That means, the questions that she answered are now wrong. They're going with her plan – whatever that is – but it's no longer the right plan. I'm alive again, and the slavers don't know that.”

Logan leaned back in his chair, cup thoughtfully against his lips. Blue stared into red lenses – a long, hard, harsh stare, before he finally finished his third drink and went for another. “Better have one hell of a plan, One-Eye, for that to work.”


	3. Breathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie reveals Krakoa's weakness. Scott tries to alleviate Logan's worry.

They hung on her every word. The power dampeners, the tech to make their range bigger. With shivering hands, Abbie Roth drew out the diagrams to turn the Genoshan technology into something that would wipe away the powers of every mutant on Krakoa so long as their teams were well placed. 

Logan watched in awe. Scott watched in fear.

Every minute detail was hashed out in thin, shaky lines – the needed materials and scavenged tech written out on the side. “They'll find the dampener collars in a basement of a collapsed Genoshan building. Those collars can be made into boxes, and if those boxes are carried onto Krakoa and placed just right,” she said, glancing up at Scott, “there will be no mutant powers left to defend the island.”

Her map of the island was incomplete – her knowledge only encompassing so much of Krakoa. She explained the placement of the boxes, how it would be enough to kill the mutants. “Even the island will be powerless, so its gates will no longer work. Those mutants trapped in the farming areas will starve to death because they won't be able to leave.”

“My family lives on the moon,” Cyclops was quick to interject. 

“They are among the first to die.” With the power dampeners in place, not even Rachel was able to escape the massacre. “They are proud defenders,” Abbie intervenes, “but not victorious.”

Logan took a seat, finally; leaned back in his chair, stroked stubbled jaw with hard knuckles. “You need to warn them, Cyke.”

“The shield around Krakoa protects the island from non-mutants,” Scott continued, ignoring the glaring blue eyes to his right. With held breath, he watched as Abbie once again tilted her head in tears. “It's not your fault.”

Leaning back, she pulled a drag on a cigarette and exhaled slowly. “You should tell them, Scott.”

Cyclops shook his head. “I can't risk anyone else finding out about you. If I warn them, they'll ask how I know. If I don't tell them, they'll start seeking out answers on their own, and even with my psychic defenses, I am not strong enough to face Cerebro. I'll handle whatever this is, Abbie. Trust me. Tell me how they get past Krakoa's defenses.”

A dark eyed glance at Wolverine and Roth swallowed hard. “There's a small inlet where Arrako meets Krakoa. A blind spot to the islands. They don't know it's there, so they don't shield it. The slavers can make it through two at a time. They know how to avoid the mutants living there. I showed them.”

Tears stained the map as she drew the five separate paths that the slavers needed to make in order to surround the mutant nation with their dampening devices. She detailed each one with the mutants they must get past – including X-23 – whom they strangle and drag behind them in order to keep her close to the dampeners. “She'll die of adamantium poisoning.” Then another glassy-eyed look to Logan. “Just like you.”

She could tell that the news of Wolverine's death does not sit well with Cyclops. She'd known him so long that – like Logan – she saw the quiet mask of emotions that paraded across his face – just around the bottom of his eyes where the lenses didn't reach, the corners of his mouth. But, mostly, it was in his breath. Slightly sped up, deep, he was uncomfortable, as he often was when he was around her. “I'm sorry,” the woman sobbed. 

“It's not your fault.” Though his voice was deepened, his face was calm. Scott made an effort to smile, to placate her fears. “I just need some time to figure this out.”

The silence stretched on as Cyclops stared at the various maps and notes spread across the kitchen table. He informed them all that they would leave the day after tomorrow – another safe house, one that was better stocked. “It's was a gift from my son. I've kept up with it in case he ever wants it back.” But, he said nothing further about future plans for either the slavers or Abbie.

Roth drug her bottle of vodka into the tiny living room, plunked herself down on the old, worn out sofa and took a swift drink to quell the tears still dripping down her face. Logan followed suit with his bottles of whiskey after pouring Scott a partial glass. “Sorry that you're going through this,” he mumbled, eyes skirting across the floor to avoid her.

“No. It's me who needs to apologize.”

“Can't help what's not your fault, darlin'.” He reminded her that Scott couldn't control his own power, hence the visor that he always wears. That there were plenty of mutants – like Rogue, Jean, Nate Grey – that had problems controlling their powers. “Finesse takes time and a lot of work. Without it, Slim'd be cutting down mountains right and left, instead of picking locks and the like. He's worked hard. Harder than most of us to try to control what's not his fault.”

“And how am I supposed to control my powers?”

“You ain't. Scottie had the right idea in mind by hiding you.” He takes a swig from the bottle, looking to the right to check on his partner. “So, that guy you were talking about. The one at the factory.”

“Yong Lee?”

“If he's the one you thought was nice, then yeah, that's the one I was talking about.”

“I think he knew that I didn't like questions because he never asked any. He'd ask everyone else, but he never asked me anything.”

“That's hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” Abbie snubbed. “He's the second person in my life like that. I miss him.”

The quiet became a blanket then, something that both Logan and Abbie wrapped themselves inside of. Both had too much on their minds – the mutants, the future, what the hell Scott was doing not warning Krakoa of an impending attack. But even more so for Logan was Cyke's refusal to fear dying any longer. That he could be dangerous now; that he could put himself in danger in order to achieve things, and he got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that that was exactly what his lover intended to do.

As the liquor flowed, Wolverine felt the oft-unfamiliar spin inside of his head. He'd drank the bottle entirely too fast. Abbie smiled – a gleeful little glitch – at his wooziness. It was rare for her to have company in the drink, and Logan was proving himself a formidable fellow to keep up with. “He stashed the other bottle under the kitchen sink,” she revealed.

He stopped momentarily to look over Scott's maps, his mind reeling with liquor and worry. “You're not immune to death,” he reminded the taller man. “What happens if The Five can't bring you back?”

Cyclops barely looked up. “I don't doubt their abilities like you do,” he said calmly, ignoring the horrified look on Logan's face. “My granddaughter is powerful. That's all I need to believe in.”

The bottle was easily found – not even hidden, just stashed. He removed it, took a gulp, and returned to the sofa with Abbie. She was nearing black-out stage, her eyes heavy and her body still. Logan took the bottle from her, set it on the other side of the couch. She protested, but was far too drunk to do anything about it. “He might need to talk to you more,” he stated, staring down at her too-relaxed person. 

“He doesn't need me. He never did.” She'd always been a burden to him. Something to hide. Something to worry over. “Not once has he ever asked me for help.”

Logan eyed Scott who was still pouring over the maps. He knew that set of jaw and the hands upon the table – he was planning. His head was in turmoil with whirlwind calculations, and none of those included death. If there was a scent to confidence, it was Cyke in his planning stages. So many moves ahead of their enemies, able to adjust on the fly because of hundreds of back-up plans. It was marvelous, but also frightening. 

It wasn't long before Roth fell asleep, her drunkenness calling her into fitful dreams. But, Logan didn't care – not with Cyclops planning his own death in some sort of twisted dream of being no longer afraid of it. “If you're planning to kill yourself --”

“It's fine, Logan. It's just a plan.”

“Are you going to die?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you planning on dying?”

There was no answer to his question. Scott simply stretched himself long and cracked his neck. “I'm going to bed,” he said. “I'll work on this tomorrow.” A final glance at Logan, “You coming?”

“In a bit,” the feral mutant said mysteriously. 

Scott shrugged off the sudden distance, a soft smile on his face. “Don't drink too much.” 

“Scott?” Red lenses turned to him. “How many of your plans include your death?”

“I'm going to bed, Logan.” And, with that, he shut the door. 

Blue eyes turned to Abbie then, softly snoring away. He could no longer smell the alcohol on her as he'd had so much himself. Even knowing how drunk she was, he shook her awake. Startled, unhinged, brown eyes looked up to him. “What?”

“He's going to die, isn't he?” Wolverine asked.

It took but a second for her face to turn red and her eyes to glass. Hugging her head, she doubled over on the sofa, grabbing both ears in search of relief. The nod she gave was silent. 

“How?” Logan asked.

“Painfully,” she answered. 

Feeling a tightness in his chest, Logan could only watch as the woman cried. She swung at him then, her fist causing no pain to his well-muscled shoulder. She decried her hate for him, her distrust. “I didn't have to know,” she hissed. 

“If we tell him--”

“You won't.”

“Why?”

“Because you're afraid he planned it that way.”

He didn't ask her if he had or not. Already so torn by the previous questions, he couldn't risk doing more damage to her fragile mental state. Putting his arms around her, he let her sob into his shoulder, holding her close while she saw Cyclops' death over and over again in her drunkenness. “I'm sorry,” he whispered when the crying finally began to calm. 

His thoughts swarmed with thousands of scenarios that would lead to Scott's painful death – from poisoning to drowning, being shot and left to bleed out, being dropped from an airplane into the ocean. Or worse, what if they tried to bond his bone to adamantium – how long would Summers survive as the metal boiled him from the inside out. 

Worry out of control, the silence of the small apartment haunting him, he laid a cried-out Abbie on the sofa and covered her with the pale blue blanket. He stood in the doorway to the bedroom for long moments staring over Cyke's unmoving body. What would happen if they couldn't bring him back? That was the question he kept asking himself over and over again. The process was still new to the mutants, to the Five. What if they refused? What if his memories were lost to the process, their past, their present? What if something went horribly wrong and they resurrected him in someone's else's body with someone's else's thoughts? He didn't trust the resurrection process.

“Logan?” Scott's soft voice seeped across the room. “What are you doing?” Rising from the bed, he met his partner half way across the room. He stared into crystal blue eyes, his red lenses turning them a shade of lilac. He could see the fretting, the anxiety, and was immediately upset. “I told you not to ask her questions.”

“Scott,” Logan choked out before grabbing the Captain Commander's arm. Rough hands cradled that barely stubbled chin, stroked back to ears, and pulled him down into a near-frantic kiss. 

Softer, then, knuckles smoothing down the older mutant's jawline, he spoke, “You shouldn't ask her questions.” 

The kiss was gentle, something warm and settling to the nervous Wolverine in his arms. Their lips met like destiny, and neither man was willing to let it go. 

Scott gently walked his partner back against the bed, ultimately realizing his need for this, for this connection to quell the horror that shook the man to pale features and frigid skin. “It's going to be okay,” he quieted into Logan's ear before gently kissing on the lobe and soft behind. The shorter mutant moaned at the touch. 

Logan swooned as Scott gripped the white hem of t-shirt, pulling it up over the older man's head, collapsing into soft, slow kisses that drove the mutant into quiet panting breaths as he struggled to relieve himself of the garment. “It's going to be okay,” Scott whispered again, throwing the shirt across the room, taking his time to explore the finally exposed chest before him.

He could hear Logan's heart beat. Could hear the moans still caught in throat – a desperate attempt to not wake the woman in the other room. Scott smiled – an edge to his lips that didn't break into teeth. He knew absolutely what he was doing – keeping the Wolverine from thinking about the possibilities of tomorrow. Keeping him from the worry that plagued his being.

The jeans were next – the button, then the peel. Stripping them off of well muscled thighs, then to ankles. Thrown aside much like the shirt. Cyclops raised up, pressed his lips to just below belly button, his tongue skirting across that rough hair. He was slow, methodical, his lips barely touching upon Logan's quickly engorging length, driving the older man near crazy with wait. “Please,” he begged. “Please.” 

“Not yet,” Scott answered back. He knew what his wild-haired lover needed. A tongue to sheathe induced a pulse of shivers across his partner's body and a barely caught hiss. Breath heavy, Logan could feel the taller mutant rise from his position between his legs and besiege him with a series of slow, soft kisses up his chest. Far away were the worries over the slavers and Abbie Roth. The questions that he had asked. The answers that he had received. That painful death gone under the glimmer of building nerves and need. 

Logan pulled Scott to his mouth, enveloped the younger mutant into a deep, loving kiss. The swirl of tongue against tongue, the exploration pulling him further and further from the memories he so desperately needed to escape from. He watched eagerly as Cyclops unbuttoned his shirt, that pale skin underneath opening up to the heat of Madripoor. Discarded, Wolverine went for the pants, but Scott stopped him. “Not yet.”

Logan groaned his disapproval, but was quickly sated by Scott's calloused hand upon his groin. The first stroke caught his breath, made him go limp with the sudden burst of pleasure. Cyclops caught him quickly, his arm wrapped underneath shoulder blade, pulling him against his bare chest. Another stroke, and Wolverine's voice quaked into flesh, his teeth edging skin. He could taste the small smear of blood on Scott's shoulder, and he sucked at it making Scott's breath heavy as well. 

The taller man removed himself from the bed, undoing his pants – much to the delight of Wolverine. Hungrily, Logan lipped his lips as Scott's rock hard member sprung out from loose boxers. But, still, Scott held him off with but a shake of his head. Beckoning his dark haired partner to join him, he pulled him into a breath-stealing kiss, languishing over the marathon beat in Logan's chest. “I love you,” Scott said quietly.

“I love you, too.”

Another kiss. One that drew down neck, then to just behind the ear. That encompassed shoulders and skin. That made breath so heavy, that made manhood so extremely hard. Again, backed onto the bed, laying down, chest to chest, as hands explored the tangled hair of Logan's chest. “I love you,” Scott said again – a breathless repeat as his hardened manhood pressed against his partner's groin. 

Logan was too exhilarated to respond.

Bending back to knees, Scott took that member in hand, his mouth enveloping the length of it and sending Logan into back-breaking quivers. Like an earthquake, the pleasure washed over him, straggling arms and hands into chestnut hair, curling toes, bending knees. It was everything he could do not to cry out his lover's name. But, he kept it to himself, the words caught in his throat, the voice kept and mitigated into breathy sounds that escaped his chest involuntarily. 

It was time.

Lube across his own member, lifting Logan up and turning him over until his bottom faced him straight out, until his hands shook at the thought of what was coming. “Scott,” he whispered, peering over his shoulder as the man jerked himself to hardness once again. It was this that he cherished most – those moments where Scott took control, showed him – without a doubt – his love, his care, esteem, whatever one would call it. 

Positioned at that puckered hole, the younger man pressed himself inward, testing the waters, so to speak, pulling out just as quickly as he had entered – giving time for Logan to get comfortable. It was a near-painful process with the healing factor in play, something that would take many, many moments for the older mutant to overcome, but relax he would, and soon, Scott would be pumping away, glancing his member off his prostrate, making him feel as if the world would go on forever. 

The second push was deeper, just shy of that precious gland. Calloused hands roamed bed-forward chest, graced across hanging-loose dick. Logan couldn't help but moan as another stroke caught his breath and made him voice his lover's name. 

Tension built as Scott worked his way inside that tight passage. Smooth, slow, he took his time to ensure that this was pleasurable for Wolverine, that his thoughts no longer drifted towards the things that worried him; that he was in the moment, aware and ready. Third and fourth, it was on the fifth entrance that he found himself to the hilt, and Logan relaxing around him. “I love you,” Scott said once again, as hand smoothed across the chest beneath him, running up through wild, black hair and back down into the wiry strands upon his chest. 

So enthralled, so waiting, Wolverine couldn't speak, especially after feeling Scott against his prostrate. His body thrust forward on idle hands that held him aloft and quickly braced themselves upon the wall behind the headboard. He lurked in this, breath almost still as the pleasure built, eyes closed, his voice one long, soft moan. His whole life, this whole month, this whole week, he'd waited for this, for Scott to take him, for Scott to show him his love, his abandon, to prove himself and all that he wanted. 

Logan was not to be denied.

Hands on chest, Scott pulled Logan up – spine to heart. Kept him steady even as he started to wilt under the mounting pressure. One hand across his collar bones, keeping him intact, his other hand roaming downward until it met stars and moons and flailing comets. Gentle lips on earlobe drew a panicked moan from Logan's throat, his head thrown back, the wild hair speckling across still-smooth jaw and chin. It tickled. It made Scott want to scratch, but he refused to break the moment – his lover now vulnerable, willing, waiting. Putty. Clay. Whatever he wanted the older man to be. Logan was his, and his alone. There was nothing imaginable that could come between them.

Scott continued to pump in and out, his thrusts centering on that wonderful gland. Logan continued to shiver and shake, waiting for climax, for anything to give him breath. “I love you,” he finally returned – a breathless, stuttered utterance, his mind finally catching up with the words that had been volleyed.

Hand roamed to member as Scott drew near to the end. Callouses working overtime, double to his thrusts, to bring Logan to climax. “I love you, too,” he said gently into the older man's ear. It wasn't long before he felt his partner stiffen in his grasp, spine straight against his chest, head thrown back. A jerk, a pause, and seed spilled in glorious escapes across the old pale blue cover. White and sticky, again and again, Logan took his pleasure seriously, leaning completely back on the sturdy frame of Cyclops.

It was moments later, as Logan's tight passage clamped down and made the warmth even warmer, that Scott climaxed himself, spilling himself inside loins, the run-over dripping off onto sheets and cover.

Logan dipped down, tired, exhausted, but aware of the mess. To one side, he curled, staring at his semen. “We should really wash these covers.”

Scott was quick to oblige, ripping them off the bed along with the top sheet. It was too hot in Madripoor to sleep with them anyway. He piled them against the wall, assured his lover that he would throw them in the wash the next morning. Then, he curled up against Logan's back, soft kisses applied to the back of Wolverine's neck. “What would I do without you?” Cyclops asked.

“Die,” Wolverine replied, and though the euphoria of their tryst still made his eyes heavy and his heat lethargic, his own word made him begin to fret.


	4. Over the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan finds hope.

The boat was smaller than what Logan expected. A motorboat – more or less – with a small Captain's room below deck, but little in the way of embellishments that would make a long journey palatable. Scott, however, didn't seem to care. He'd bought bottles of liquor for his guests, but after that he was done, choosing to concentrate on maps and notes, and spending his time in isolation for his planning. Wolverine was left with Abbie as they crossed the ocean – their scant meals and bottles of vodka and whiskey. He was ahead of her, his head reeling with the stuff, and she spent most of her time buzzed enough to sleep away the endless hours.

It was past midnight when she woke, staring up at the stars, whispering about Yong Lee. She missed him. She wondered if he was okay, if he hated her for being a mutant. “Hard to believe he never questioned you.” Logan said.

“Just like Scott,” she slurred in return. Like Cyclops, Yong had never asked her anything, phrasing all of his words into statements, unlike their coworkers. It was as if he knew exactly what her power was, and chose not to trigger it. “Maybe he was a mutant, too?” she dreamed into the ether of midnight and too many stars. 

Though Logan had questioned Scott about the boat, the Captain Commander gave scant details – only that it was used to ferry elicit goods from one port to another, and that after the cruise across the Pacific, there would be a three day journey by foot to reach their destinations. “She'll stay there until we retrieve her.” A warning to Logan, that if Scott died, Wolverine would become responsible for the mysterious mutant. 

“You got this that day you were out, didn't you?”

Cyclops didn't answer. Returning to his paperwork, he ignored any further attempt at conversation, leaving Wolverine alone with his thoughts. 

Out on deck, Abbie Roth watched as the small boat tugged through wave after wave. Sometimes, her eyes would widen as she caught the tell-tale shadow of a fish beneath the waves. Other times, she would look to the sky and follow the clouds. In so many ways, she was innocent. This freedom. This chance to just exist without fear. Wolverine could see it, and he hated to interrupt it.

“Lunch time,” he said, sitting beside her with a plate of food. He'd spent the morning preparing the meal for themselves and the ship's captain, and though Scott didn't want to come out of hiding for it, Logan refused to waste it. Abbie nearly turned her nose up at the food – sardines and dried meat, some boiled vegetables that no longer had texture, and a drink of some juice that she couldn't recognize. “It's better than the MRE's,” Wolverine reminded her, and with the slightest of nods, the woman took the plate. 

Logan was not a good cook.

Abbie – usually polite about different foods thanks to her time in Taiwan – couldn't even smile through the bite. “You really like salt,” she finally said, hurriedly chewing the food and swallowing. She wasn't sure how much she could eat.

“Helps you retain water,” he replied without hesitation. “And with as much as you drink, you need all of the water --”

“You're one to talk.”

“I'm eating the shit, am-- I'm eating it because we both need to keep up with our water intake.”

Brown eyes rolled. “You didn't feed Scott this, did you?”

Logan shook his head. Though he didn't say it, Scott's had his culinary experiments before. “I'm better with fire,” he finally exploded in exasperation. “Boats. Fire. Sink.” And that was all he had to say on the matter.

Abbie smiled through her bite of overly salted sardines, watched as Logan once again lowered the nets into the ocean. She relished the air here, the salt breeze – free of chemicals and dust. She'd never been on the ocean before, never felt so open. “How long since he's slept?” she asked quietly.

Logan couldn't answer that. Even before this mission, before his previous death, before their joining, he didn't know when last his partner had slept. He shrugged, looked at the woman to his right. “He'll sleep when he needs to.”

It had long been the unspoken promise between the two of them that they wouldn't interfere in each other's business. Cyclops would keep his secrets; Wolverine would keep his motivations. They would never ask, never intrude. Though, the longer their secret relationship went on, the more Logan had a hard time following that silent rule. “He'll give his life for you,” the feral mutant grumbled. Hand running through black hair, he set his plate down and stared up at the sky. “'Course, he'd give his life for anyone.”

Abbie smiled. “You're saying I'm not special, then?” Another bite of lunch and she'd had enough of the terrible meal. 

“No,” Logan spoke into the eerie quiet. “You're more than special. That's why I'm jealous.”

“He's not in love with me.”

“No, but he protects you like he is. Can't remember the last time he stayed up for a week for me.”

“Maybe it's because he trusts you to always come back alive.” She paused, dark eyes staring into blue. “You really shouldn't have come.” She scraped her unfinished food onto his plate, took them both to the small kitchen above the cabin. Blue eyes watched her as she went. 

Though free, she was haunted. Maybe by the image of Scott's death in the near future – whatever painful thing that he would go through, that Logan had to prevent no matter all else. Or maybe it was the absence of Yong Lee, a man that she had such endearment for. Or, perhaps, something else. Jai Kim, her half-led life, that she was down to but three bottles of vodka, and Scott said it was a five day journey across the ocean. Hell, Logan himself, was down to two bottles of whiskey, and wondered what he would do when he ran out. 

Anything to stave off the nightmares. 

Of Scott being murdered.

Over and over again.

He considered going to Scott again, trying to talk him out of whatever he was planning, but he knew how his lover would react – with exactly that. Love. He would cradle the feral mutant in his arms, shower him with comfort and words of reassurance, that he need not worry, that all would be okay. And the thoughts would ease from Logan's mind, taking away his need to protect the younger mutant, to help him, to forget that it was Scott's life on the line, not his own. 

He was good at that, Scott was. He always had been.

Logan smelled the liquor before he looked up. It was night already. So much time had passed that it threw him off balance. “You okay?” Cyclops asked.

“Yeah-” Logan stammered. “I mean, yeah, I'm fine.” Then he noticed dinner and his stomach growled in response.

“Thought you'd be hungry,” Scott smirked, taking a seat a beside him. Wolverine rolled his eyes. “Tomorrow, just tell Abbie. She can cook pretty well.”

“And you know this how?”

“Come on. I've known her half my life. We've had meals on occasion.” Scott knew that the agitation wasn't a fit of jealousy, but rather that the fit was an excuse to hide the older mutant's much deeper worry. “Eat up and come down to the cabin. I'll walk you through the plan.”

Blue eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Yeah. I would value your thoughts on them.”

“I'm not the brains of this operation, Slim. That's your job.” Scott looked hurt by the comment, or maybe Logan just imagined it. That face was so hard to read sometimes, stuck behind red visor and all. It was quite possible that the slight downturn of his lips meant anger, or the barely-there lowering of brow meant that the request was an order disguised with politeness. A pause. “Yeah, I'll come down. You staying to eat with me?”

“I already ate.”

“With Abbie?”

Scott stood and walked back towards the steps leading down below. Still in civilian dress, Logan could make out that slender form disappearing in the evening light. And suddenly, he was alone again, the faint trace of cologne still upon the salt-wind. Logan clung to it as best he could, but the sea was more powerful than the man's aftershave. 

Wolverine took his time to eat. Cyke would expect as much from him. Hurry, and Scott would flush out his worry and either berate him or make love to him. Maybe both, and while he desired the latter very much so, he couldn't allow himself to break again. 

Finding a way to prevent Scott's death meant understanding his plans, and using every ounce of his focus to find a way through it and prove that Abbie could be wrong. After all, if she was wrong about this, then Cyke's fears of Xavier using her to evil ends could also be wrong. She could come to Krakoa, be happy midst her own kind. Maybe the Quiet Council would even give special privileges to her friend, so that they could both find freedom from the mayhem of the modern world. 

The more he thought it, the quicker he ate. The more hopeful he became. He could do this. He could save Scott and Abbie all at the same time. 

Scott gave him a questioning look when he finally made it downstairs. Perhaps it was the smile that spread his lips, or the brightness of blue eyes, either one could have made the Captain Commander suspicious and Logan was quick to tone it down. “Abbie, you can leave if you like. You won't be here for the battle.” The woman swallowed hard, trying to choke down her sudden fear. The younger mutant sighed and shook his head before looking up at Wolverine.

“I haven't seen her since lunch,” Logan was quick to explain, holding both hands in the air in forfeit. 

Scott launched into his battle plans, explaining the entrance to the building that he'd found a few yards away. “It's an old sewer tunnel. It stinks, but if we can sneak the past the guards, there shouldn't be a problem getting in.”

“I thought you were going to rescue all of the people?”

“We are. But, it'll be easier if we draw fire inside the building first, giving the soldiers limited capacities for movement and hiding places. The testing area is the biggest concern, followed by the cages of mutants below.”

Logan asked about releasing the prisoners first. That would give them more firepower for when the slavers came inside, but Cyclops shook his head. “We're not using innocent mutants as cover. They're going to sneak them out safely through the tunnel, while you and I keep them on the chase. We're skilled enough to do this.”

If Logan's memory was correct, there were at least forty-five guards outside the base, another 45 inside, all armed to the teeth with weapons enough to protect their holdings. Outside, the humans were spread across the acreage, digging out and constructing a new building for the purpose of capturing and experimenting on other mutants that had yet to find their way to Krakoa. “That's a lot of guards to leave outside, Slim.”

“It'll be okay. I can outsmart them. And you? You're unstoppable.”

“Why don't you let me take care of the guards on the outside, and then we can--”

“They would only call for reinforcements. This whole thing has to take place in a total of three hours – which we are both capable of. If you attack the guards first, they're only going to bring in more soldiers, and that tighter security will make this impossible. We can do this, Logan. You and me. We can do this.”

Logan couldn't hide his worry, but he nodded anyway. “You've been right so far,” he said in a low husked voice. In that moment, he wanted so badly to talk to Abbie, to question her about the plans, but he didn't. Somewhere on deck, she was getting plastered trying her best not to think about her friend getting slaughtered. Though Wolverine was sure that he could prove her wrong by taking control of the mission, he knew that she no longer wanted to be involved.

“The Five can bring me back,” Scott whispered, reacting to the strange look on his lover's face. “If anything happens, if I mess up, I will be resurrected.” He placed a kiss to Logan's knuckles. “Please tell me that you trust me on this.”

Hesitantly, the older man spoke. “Yeah. I trust you, Scotty. I trust you.”


	5. Awry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan thinks that he has a solution to prevent Scott's death.

She cried. Bawled on his shoulder. She wasn't ready to be alone. Wasn't ready to lose herself to the fear of their mission. Scott was right. She couldn't see past death, and so for her, the horror that Logan had put into her brain was permanent, and he felt the weight of that like the adamantium on his skeleton. 

Leaving Scott to sort things out, he wandered around the safe house. Books, movies, modern MRE's. Cable – before he murdered himself and came to live in the present – had gifted this place to his father – just in case things went wrong with his revolution. Scott had refused to use it, however, preferring the irony of holing himself up in an old Weapons X lab in the North. It was only later, after the Phoenix spark had brought him back to life did he admit that he was keeping it safe in case his son ever wanted it back.

She could live here for years. But, what a lonely life it would be.

The lab was interesting. All of the futuristic machines and weapons in storage. He couldn't imagine Abbie taking much time to explore all of it, but finding the sonic grenades gave him hope. Cable loved his weapons, and had spent hours talking about them to anyone who would listen – including these little grenades that fit three to a hand. Non-lethal, these little spheres would scramble the brains of everyone in a five foot radius, leave them alive, but useless for hours. 

Logan stuffed a dozen bombs into his pack – useful little things that would save his companion from a painful death, and sneaked back into the kitchen area. Abbie had finally calmed herself, and Cyke was introducing her to the myriad of entertainments and foods that were in storage. “Come on,” he smiled, “Shrimp scampi, a glass of red wine, and Ocean's Eleven? Tell me that's not appealing.” 

She followed with a slight grin of her own, looking over the DVD's. Action, drama, documentaries. Anything she could ask for was at her fingertips. Then, there was the music, and the books. “Just a couple of weeks, right?” she asked, her voice tiny and pitiful.

“At the most, I hope,” Scott replied. “Depends on how long this takes to clean up.”

“And what happens after?”

Long fingers scratched against chestnut hair. “I-I don't know. But, I'll figure something out. I promise.”

She didn't tell him about his death. But Logan could tell that she hoped against all that good in the world that she was wrong.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked. She nodded. With a smile, he stood again, flipped through her MRE's and found the scampi. “Here. You're bound to be hungry.”

“What about you?”

“We have to go, Abbie. We have to make sure that you're safe.” 

A dark eyed glance and Wolverine, and he smiled at her – tendering fingers across his pack to prove to her that things would be okay. With that, she took the scampi and the video, and began to prepare for her evening celebration. Scott finally relaxed. “We'll be back soon,” he encouraged her. “Enjoy your vacation.”

Logan watched as Scott left, giving a final grin to Abbie. “It's okay,” he said. “I've got this.”

She only looked at her feet. 

And with that, he too left the bunker and walked out onto the desert floor. The sun beat down hard on them as they tread through sand and dunes. The three day walk had been hard enough – done mostly under cover of night. Logan was irritated that they had to go through it again.

Looking back over his shoulder, though they had walked less than ten minutes, Logan couldn't tell the safe house from the surrounding sand. “Your son really does know how to pick them,” he mumbled, catching up with his long-legged lover in a sudden sprint forward. “What are you going to do with her?”

“I don't know.”

He could see the stress upon the Captain Commander's perfect features, hear it in his voice. The rasp, the twinge of lips into a downward spiral. The clenching of hands and the lowering of head. He truly had no idea, and that made Logan worry. “I know a place,” he eventually revealed as they walked through the sand in the heat of the afternoon sun. “I think I can keep her whereabouts unknown.”

Scott stopped in his tracks, turned on heel, nearly tripped in his zealousness. “Tell me.”

“A remote Inuit town in Canada. A small bar where she could work. They'd never let the government know that she didn't have a visa.”

“And Yong Lee?”

“You're planning on bringing him into this?”

“He's the only person that she's talked about since I've known her.”

Logan nodded. “They'd take him, too. Though probably for the fishing boats.” He gave a small pause. “They'd fight to keep her safe.”

There was a breath in Scott's chest. One that lowered his shoulders, made him crack his neck. This was a worry no longer in his head. “Thank you,” he said. “We'll take her there.”

As Scott had hoped, the captain of the small ship kept true to his word. Loaded down with several gate flowers – a black market item that could bring the man a small fortune – they took off for another land, another place, and the dread that filled Logan's stomach was unlike anything he had felt before. He continually reminded himself that he had the sonic bombs now, that Scott would be safe. But even that didn't alleviate his worries entirely.

It was a five day journey to the slaver's island in the South Pacific – a sand bound place with massive coral reefs visible through turquoise waters. During that time, Logan had managed to take the captain on as a drinking buddy, listening to his tales of drug running to and from Madripoor, of once being on Hydra's hit list and having to camp out in Argentina until it finally blew over. He was a convict – arrested for car theft and left to rot in prison for five years. Afterwards, when they finally decided to let him go, he couldn't get a job, couldn't support himself. “I was a teenager when I stole that damn car.” He'd done it on a dare from his friends – a joyride. He never meant to hurt anyone.

He turned to drug running after meeting a guy in Vegas who had more wealth than he knew what to do with. For some reason, the man had taken to the captain, put him up in a hotel for a couple of days, got him some good meals. And when he was ready to leave, he offered the man a job, which he gratefully took. It started small – little trips over the border for marijuana in the north, then cocaine in the south. Then running heroin to Madripoor. He drew the line at people, and that's when his employer dropped him like a hot rock. “So, I've been in business for myself ever since.”

“Don't you feel bad for what you do to people?”

The captain shrugged. “I don't think about it to be honest.” The idea that he was hurting someone, when the world had scarred him into starvation – these things, they were not on his mind. “I donate my extra money to the ASPCA,” he revealed. The rescue of animals from abusive homes. “I had a shelter dog. A rottie. Best thing that ever happened to me, but he died. He was old. Don't have the heart to adopt another one.”

Logan listened to his tales with patience. His travels, his adventures. Though he judged the man with a spiteful eye, he never once said a word in hate. “You have a home?” he asked finally.

“Yeah. A little condo in Hawaii.”

“Does it accept pets?”

“Yeah. So long as their small.”

“Then adopt one. Settle down. Stay still. Because if I hear your name again after this, if I think you're still transporting drugs, I'm going to kill you.”

“The other guy --”

“I don't care what Cyclops said. There's no immunity when you're putting lives at risk. Stay low, adopt a fucking dog and live your life on the coast. I'm sure you've got the funds for it, and you'd be better off. I've got your scent. No matter where you go, I will find you.”

The captain knew of Wolverine. A legend in Madripoor. A hundred men and a half, he could take down before he was even slightly injured, a hundred more before he was slowed. Half an army could come at him, and even if they thought him dead, he would still come back and murder them all. “You really are an animal,” the captain said, taking a sip of whiskey.

“Yeah.”

It was dawn, three days later when they landed. There was no need for the captain anymore. With the gate flower he had left, Cyclops could easily teleport them back to Krakoa and still keep Abbie's existence a secret. He would find her again once the mission was over and take her to the small village that Wolverine had told her about. 

The arid land that they crossed was rugged and ragged, with stumps of grass and bulbous-rooted plants that stored water at their base. A few small tent-cities dotted the way – mostly mercenaries and wayward soldiers looking for their next war, sometimes a smuggler town, sometimes something a bit more nefarious. Logan hated that these towns existed – preying off the local farmers, demanding huge wads of cash in return for protection, stealing their children, their wives for their entertainment. He wanted to blow them all into the water – and he could have – but Scott reminded him time and again that the slavers came first. “They're only here because of them. We end their trade, and these villages go down with them. We're after the disease, not the symptoms.”

Reluctantly, time and again, Logan was forced to move on. 

They came upon the slavers' acreage in the middle of the afternoon, with the high heat drawing Scott into a vast need for water. “We'll wait for nightfall,” he said, scrambling out of the sun and under the cover of the massive rocks to the west side of the camp. 

In the shade, they shared the water packs that Scott had stowed away in his pack. The man was prepared for everything, but Logan could still sense nervousness about him. “You okay, Slim?”

“Yeah.” Red visor stays intently upon Logan's face. “I love you.”

He always said it at the oddest times. The gravity of his thoughts staying under cover in place of that simple phrase – one that made Logan feel important, if anxious. “Love you, too, Slim.” His hand brushed against his own pack, the bombs making the leather slightly colder to the touch. Something imperceptible to most people, but to him a comfort. “You should take a nap,” he said. “You haven't slept much --”

“And let you run off half-cocked and ruin my plan?” the Captain Commander quietly laughed with a slight smile on his face. He slapped his knee when Logan looked to the ground. “Yeah. I thought you were up to something.”

“Scott, I can take care of this --”

“The safety of the prisoners is the priority, Logan. My way, everyone's safe.” He reiterated his scheme – how venturing in quietly to lead the mutants out of harm's way, drawing the soldiers inside to allow the humans access to freedom. The wild goose chase in the inner walls of the base – these were things that they could handle, and in the end, the plan would work.

“You leave out one thing, bub,” Wolverine grumbled.

“What?”

“You ain't immortal, Scotty. Real bullets, real danger.”

“We've faced worse,” the younger mutant smiled. “And you never worried then.”

Logan was struck by the comment. “Why do you always think I stood in front of you, One-eye?”

The smile quickly faded. Scott drew in a deep breath and apologized for his lack of candor. It had taken him far longer to come to terms with himself and his feelings. And even now, though he was sure of who he was, he found it hard to explain that to others. Logan took it in stride, allowing him to decide when the time was right, satisfied that Scott finally admitted to loving him. “I haven't slept with her,” the taller man revealed.

“I know.” Logan paused, blue eyes staring into red lenses. “Has she asked?”

Cyclops nodded. “I tell her I'm not sure.” A brief pause. “I haven't figured out how to tell her that I am sure. That it's not her. I don't want to see her cry, Logan.”

“I don't either.” A rough hand tousled chestnut hair, a finger dusted just at the underside of visor before landing on sun-chapped lips. “That's why we'll keep this a secret for as long you need. It's her heart that's going to break, and you who'll shoulder the blame. So, take your time. I'm in no rush.”

Night fell, and their conversation stilled with the rise of the moon. Silently, they tread the dusty landscape around the base until – just as Scott said – they came to an old sewer pipe just big enough that they would be able to slip inside one at a time. 

The Captain Commander took out his mini binoculars, pressed them against ruby red quartz. From here, he could see the action of fifteen guards, though he admitted in the darkness, his sight wasn't the best. Wolverine had a look himself, scanning both to the northern and southern expanses of the compound. “I count twenty five,” he said. 

“Should be more.”

“Maybe they're inside.”

“Or beyond our sight.” Scott put the binoculars back in his pack, and stuck the pouch just to the right of the drain pipe. “This is our ticket home,” he reminded the feral mutant. “Remember where it is.”

“You sound like you expect to die,” Logan hissed.

Silence as Scott caught the movement of light above – the moon glimmering off a revolving camera. It was just to the east of their position. Eventually, it would catch sight of them, and they had to move before it did. Kneeling down on the rocks, he pushed himself into the tunnel, leading the way for Wolverine. But, the older mutant didn't follow. Three commands, barked in a hoarse voice, and still no Logan. It took too many seconds to pull himself from the pipe, and by the time he did, Wolverine was already at the fence slashing his way through. 

A quick glance up to the camera, and Scott's stomach dropped. He'd been spotted. “Wolverine!” he called after his partner. “Wolverine!” But, it was no use – Logan wasn't coming back. 

He stumbled in his sudden shock, hit his knee against the rock, instantly bruising it and slowing his crawl onto solid ground. He took off in a limp towards the fencing, watched as bullets started flying and as Logan began the blood bath. And then he saw it, and stopped in his tracks. There was no way to mistake that little round sphere of metal. They were one of his son's favorite weapons, and his shallow scream of, “No, Logan!” was lost to the blitz of the sonic bomb. 

He ran then, as fast as he could with bungled knee. To the fence, to save the men that tried to wound the desperate Wolverine. It was the gun against his head that stopped him. That forced him to the ground, into shackles, and then through the hole in the fence. 

The men approaching Logan stopped in their tracks, smiled at the prey that they had caught. “One twitch, and I'll kill him,” Sargent Eldridge Mayfield said. “And this time, I'll make sure he's dead before I walk away.” A long pause as Logan stared him down. “Retract your claws,” he warned, and lowered the gun to Scott's swollen knee, blasting it without a second warning. Without another word, he put the gun against Cyclops' ear.

Logan retracted his claws.

He woke up in a cell, his arm bound by chains that he was sure he could break free from. “Cyke?” he whispered into the darkness. 

A light came on – dim, amber. A small shaven-headed boy with tears in his eyes. “Make a move, Wolverine, and I kill the boy.” Another light – Trenton Myard. Tall, muscular, smelled like a turkey sandwich. “If you make it past me, there are forty-three other cells with soldier and children just like this one. They're alert, waiting for you to kill me. As soon as you do, they have been instructed to kill those children, too. You might save one or two, but you can't save them all. So, tell me, Wolverine. How many kids are you going to kill today?”

The smile on Myard's face made him sick to his stomach, and without a likely choice, he leaned back against the cold, metal wall, his growl unmistakably violent. 

He couldn't count the hours, couldn't believe Myard's stillness, his knife to the boy's neck, or imagine where they were keeping Scott. Though he'd asked several times, Trenton refused to oblige him with conversation. He'd said his piece, and anything after that was information that Wolverine did not need.

Hours, days. Logan couldn't tell the time. All he knew – by the smirk on Trenton's face – was that Scott was still alive, and that there was still hope. He clung to that hope. More than he ever thought he would – the breath, the life, the feel of shaky hands clasped within his own. He imagined it so thoroughly at times, that his arms reached out, his lips puckered, and all he was met with was laughter from the opposite side of the cell. “My, how a warrior has fallen,” Trenton mocked. “From a beast to a pile of wilt.” Still, his knife stayed at the neck of the child.

Logan said nothing, let the lunatic have his say. “How much do you love him? Enough to give up your homeland? To help us invade?”

He waited, Myard did. Watched carefully as the beast before him tumbled those thoughts through his mind “How many lives would you take to save him?”

“Yours,” Wolverine growled in response.

“What about his? For the lives of all of these children? To keep them safe for one more night?”

Logan said nothing.

“Would you kill him? If he was already half-dead? Would you take his life to spare the lives of forty three children?”

“If you did that, then there would be nothing to hold me back from killing the lot of you.”

Trenton laughed abandon as the child squirmed in his grip. Yes, the mutant was right. There would be nothing to hold him back – not rain or hellfire. That's why, the soldiers here would hold their place indefinitely. They would keep themselves alert and awake, listening for the sounds of struggle. “You're time with the X-men has changed you, Wolverine. A decade ago, you would have destroyed this cage.”

“And what makes you think I won't now?”

“Because you've gone soft, Weapon X. You've grown a heart.”

That Myard knew about Weapon X meant that he had been somehow affiliated with the group, and that in itself was some damning information. These children, these mutants that had been imprisoned, they weren't just slaves, they were experiments – but not for the end of the mutant genome, but to exploit it. Logan took three solid breaths, crunching down on teeth to hold back the anger that broiled within. No child – no one at all – should have to live with what he went through. The pain, the fear, the false memories, and etchings of pain. 

But, he needed to keep calm – for the sake of the human children trapped between these walls. He needed to keep the predator at bay and to think of a way out of this. 

Hours passed in the darkened room. The child was tired, falling asleep on his feet. A dangerous thing with the blade so close to his neck. “Hey, kid,” Logan spoke softly. The kid jolted awake. “What's your name?”

“He doesn't have a name anymore,” Trenton was quick to answer. “He only goes by number thirty two. Isn't that right?” The child nodded. “Say it! Isn't that right?” he spoke more firmly, and razor edge of anger in his voice.

“Yes sir,” the child whimpered. “Thirty-two.”

Logan held his tongue after that. Forwent small talk, questions. He didn't want the child to be endangered by his actions, didn't want the stress of the child's innocence to be a burden. Blue eyes wide and open, he stared at Trenton Myard, his thoughts long on Eldridge Mayfield. One way or another, he would kill them both – the laws of Krakoa be damned.

He was torn awake when the door creaked open – the metal hinges screeching for lack of oil. Three men stood in the doorway, and Logan could smell blood. “Won't be long,” one of the soldiers told Myard, then tossed Cyclops into the center of the room. 

In the crack of light still left by the slowly closing door, Wolverine shouted out his horror. “Scott!” Bloodied, beaten, broken, his lover didn't move. He scrambled across the floor, chains slurring across the iron floor, and wrapped his arms around the Captain Commander. Even without searching, he could feel the broken bones and hear the gurgling in the younger man's chest. “Don't-- Scott, you're going to be okay. You're going to be --”

The slight cough forced more blood from lungs to mouth, the ooze dripping down onto Logan's hands. Scott was drowning in his own fluids. 

Logan could end this suffering. A single claw through the skull, kill the brain, put him out of pain. And as he pressed his fist against Cyclops' forehead, he found he couldn't do it. Every second with him was still a second. And he wanted all of the time that he could get.

He laid on the floor, pulling Scott's head into his shoulder. He wrapped himself around the broken body before him, held him close to keep him warm. Tears were inescapable as he listened to that raspy breath and then, the slow, whispered words of, “I.... love..... you.”

His last breath, Scott fell limp in his arms, and Logan's grief overwhelmed him.


	6. Dodging the Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with the Quiet Council does not go as Scott hoped.

Jean was quiet. 

It had been Emma who had figured out that he had died. She had a habit of checking up on him when out on missions – one that he hated, but she continued out of love. When she couldn't find him, she told Charles, and Xavier couldn't find him either. 

He touched millions of minds that day, but Cyclops was not among them. 

“He'll be okay,” Storm said, hand upon her best friend's shoulder. None of them knew how long he'd been dead, nor what a resurrection so soon would do to him. “Scott's strong. He'll be fine.”

Red hair flickered in the lights above the resurrection pool. In the pod, she could see the slow shape of cells, and the small child that her husband once was. He had to be aged slowly – they all did – as the process was painful – the shredding and forcing of atoms and bones and flesh to grow at such a magnificent rate. If Tempus wasn't careful, she could break his mind from the pain alone. Hours would pass, sometimes days – depending on The Five and their care of the mutant.

Scott was special to them. He was a leader of mutant kind, and without him, the species would not have survived to finally see themselves flourish. Hope, especially, her rage finally calmed – replaced with purpose – took extra care. Though twice they had been enemies, she had finally come to know his strength and will. 

Xavier was also on hand to watch the progress, his lips drawn down into a patient scowl. To Ororo, he was unreadable, Cerebro masking his eyes. Much like Scott. Though, over the years, she had learned to make out some of Summers' subtle hints of emotions. “This will take time,” she said to the man. “Perhaps you should rest. Your part in this is not easy.”

It took exacting mental control to put the soul back into the shell of a body. To keep the memories intact, to keep the person the same as they were upon death. Xavier had a habit of backing up Scott more vigorously than others. More so because he thought of the man as his son, rather than his rank of Captain Commander. 

However, things were not _settled_ between Charles and Scott. There was vast tension still there. Xavier complained that Cyclops was hiding things, and Summers would accuse him of the same. There were several moments in the past few weeks – since the slavers began to kidnap the mutants – where she was sure that the Professor was going to invade his mind, and perhaps he tried, and was rebuffed by Scott's renowned mental defenses. Defenses that had gotten even better when he became involved with Emma. Either she was a tremendous teacher, or she plagued the man so much that he learned to block her out. Storm wasn't sure which.

Xavier paced back and forth on the dusty ground of the hatchery – a sign of his anxiousness. But, whether it was the resurrection or the upcoming meeting to discuss Scott's duty to Krakoa, Storm couldn't tell. Jean's admission that Cyclops and Wolverine were engaged in an intimate relationship had been dumbfounding at first, especially to Storm, herself, who still carried a torch for the feral mutant. “He's my husband,” she told the Council. “His duty should be to me, to Krakoa.” 

Sinister was the first to realize the consequences of Scott's newfound desires, speaking quite eloquently on the need for more Omega level mutants to keep the world at bay, and reminding everyone that Scott and Jean – regardless of the timeline – produced some of the most powerful mutants known to the world. “They are the perfect genetic combination, and to let him break the Third Law of Krakoa so easily, is something that we should not stand for.”

Magneto had a like-minded thought, but instead touted Scott's position as Captain Commander and the example that he needed to set for all of mutantdom, and the arguments went on and on, with only Emma standing up for Scott. “You small-minded twats. You wouldn't do this to Bobby, or my brother, to Jean-Paul.”

“No,” Magneto said, “but, then again, we are not asking them to be anything more than what they are. Cyclops, on the other hand, agreed to his duties wholeheartedly. He must be held accountable for his actions.”

“So, the laws only count when one is in a position of leadership?”

“Those in leadership must serve Krakoa and its laws. It only makes sense.”

Kurt and Ororo had remained quiet – seeing both sides of the argument. To take away Scott's autonomy was dreadful, especially with mutants finally being able to experience freedom for the first time in their lives. But, Krakoa was still in danger, and more mutants were needed, especially mutants as strong as the children of Scott and Jean. “Can't he just date you both?” Kurt asked.

“I'm his wife,” Jean responded, a sour note in her voice.

“Was his wife,” Emma smirked. “You died, remember? 'Til _death_ do us part.”

“Emma. There is no need for pettiness.” For the first time during the meeting, Xavier had spoken. “It's improper to discuss this without hearing from Cyclops as well. This meeting is adjourned until he has returned.”

Down below the resurrection pools, the mutants waited for the outcome. Murmurs that Storm could hear – worries that something had happened thereby delaying the ceremony. That Scott was damaged. That their hope of immortality was lost to them, and they would once again be hunted to extinction. “You should say something to them,” Storm told Xavier, but the mutant did not answer her. 

He stared down into the egg – Scott was now a preteen. Around the age of when Charles had taken him in, and raised to him to be the leader of the X-men. Surely then, Xavier would not have imagined that the boy would one day kill him in a Phoenix induced haze. Surely then, he wouldn't have thought that Scott would be his very own sacrificial lamb. 

The progress was slow – from teenager to adulthood – the body that Jean recognized the most. Their marriage, their happiness. She cried on Storm's shoulder once again, reminding her best friend of the betrayal that she felt, of the love that she still carried for him. 

Storm smoothed back red hair, shushing the woman in a mild tone. Once again, Scott had hurt Jean. And her heart was near-angry over that. But, she also knew Summers, having spent years jockeying leadership of the X-men with him. They had considered themselves equals, and she considered him a friend. If Logan made him happy, if the older mutant made him feel free, then who was she to take that away from him. 

The fully grown body was busted from it's shell, dragged out into the dirt, motionless and weak. Xavier carefully placed the visor on his face, and pulled the shell to it's knees. Without a word, his mental blast sent Scott reeling backwards onto the ground, hitting the rocky path with a loud thump. “Bring him to the Council chamber as soon as he's awake,” Charles instructed Storm, taking Jean's arm and leading her away from the hatchery.

Already, Scott began to move, to twitch his fingers. “Don't worry,” Hope said. “I've got this.” 

Having copied the powers of the Professor, Hope put Scott into a light slumber. Light enough that he was still aware of the movement around him – that he was safe, that he was okay – but drowsy enough to keep him from moving. Dreams fluttered from his lips as The Five began the ritual task of cleansing him. “Logan,” being the only word that Storm recognized.

They treated him gently, buckets of soapy water and thick towels, taking their time to scrub off the muck of eggs. Hope concentrated on his hair. Cradling his head in her lap, she scrubbed at scalp and chestnut strands, detangling them with her fingers, making sure the stickiness of the egg was removed. Moving down to ears and jaw, she felt him tense at her touch, and nervously, she looked at Storm. “It's not wise to keep him under like this,” she finally admitted.

“Why?”

“He's having nightmares.”

“Don't prod his mind, child. Especially in such an unguarded moment. Let him keep his secrets.”

“Should I wake him up?” the red head asked.

Pale blue eyes stared long and hard at the body on the ground. Storm could hear the murmurs of the crowd below, heightened now, their worry buzzing like electric on the mild wind. She knew what was coming for him. She knew what the Council was going to do. And, she hated it. “Yes.”

Scott woke with a start, his breath heaving, his heart racing. The nightmares had put him on edge. “You're safe, Cyclops,” Ororo spoke, while The Five helped him to his feet. Still weak, still in pain, he cringed as they hefted him up. 

Exhausted, he stumbled forward, to be caught by his granddaughter. “You can take more time,” she said. 

Scott shook his head. He remembered dying. He remembered the pain of dying, of Logan wrapping himself around his broken body. He remembered the tears that wet his cheek. “Did Wolverine make it back, yet?” 

“No,” Storm revealed quietly, watching the man's jaw clench at the answer. 

“I have to go,” he replied all too quickly. 

“The Council wants a meeting with you,” she warned.

“It will have to wait. I need to go back--”

“You're in no condition to go back out there,” Hope said, still holding him up. “You need rest, Grandpa.”

As if noticing her for the first time, Scott glanced down at the girl at his side. “I can fix this,” he said, his attention turning again to Storm. “I know how to defeat them.”

“It's not up to me, Scott. It's up to the Council. You have a meeting that you must attend where many decisions will be made.”

He cocked his head to the right. “Decisions?”

“Brace yourself, my friend,” is all she would say as Hope brought him forth so the crowds could finally see him.

The rhythmic chanting of 'Cyclops' rose up over the crowd, but as usual, Scott didn't make acknowledgment of it. He stayed quiet at Ororo's side, answering her questions as she deemed him to be the true Cyclops, undamaged, and her friend. 

The cheers followed them down into the cavern, through the crowd that parted for them. Many mutants reached out to touch his unclothed skin as if trying to grab hold of their own mortality. As if he was their hope, their meaning. It made him uncomfortable.

Kurt greeted him at the Council Chamber, offering him a robe to cover himself. He gladly took it and looked to Ororo. “Exactly how much trouble am I in?”

“You'll get through this,” was all she could offer up before the psychic summoning by Charles, himself.

The Council was all in attendance, save for Kitty who was away on a supply run. To Scott's knowledge, she'd never actually attended a meeting, but he didn't blame her. They mostly tended to end in arguments.

He looked around the room, taking in the visages of the Council. Jean and Emma both looked as if they'd been crying. It was then that he realized this wasn't just about the failed mission. “I have to go,” he said weakly, exhaustion readily apparent in his voice. “I know how to stop them. I don't have much time.”

“Are you having relations with Logan?” Xavier bluntly asked, a scowl on his face. 

Scott forced himself to ignore the sudden jump of his heart, to stand straight and tall, and act unsurprised at the sudden intrusion into his personal life. Eyes darted to Jean, whose shoulders shook with a sudden moment of heartbreak. His own heart twisted in her pain. “Yes.”

The Council erupted into immediate arguments of bonds and duty, the need to strengthen Krakoa, autonomy, and lastly about the dangerous precedence they were about to set. “If we do this to Cyclops,” Storm calmly spoke, “Then are we also going to do this to others? Are you going to force me to lay with a man I do not love for the sake of Krakoa?”

“Of course not,” Jean soothed. “That's not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about, Jean?”

“We're husband and wife. That bond should be honored.”

Emma growled. “'Til death do us part, dear. You died. He died. End of story.”

They glared at each other for long, tense moments before Apocalypse finally spoke. Of all of the Council members, it was he that Cyclops dreaded most. The ancient mutant had once torn him apart, and still to this day, he could feel the darkness within him like an old wound that kept reopening. “Do you want to protect your fellow mutants?”

“Everyday of my life.” Scott's voice was steady, his face still, his heart a marathon.

“Do you know why the Third Law of Krakoa exists, Captain Commander?”

“Survival.”

“Then why do you thwart this law and make a mockery of the Quiet Council?”

Again, the room erupted into arguments, the mutants making their sides very clear. Mystique, lounging in her chair, became the visage of Wolverine. She'd done this before to him, pulled out this mighty secret, but here, it was a dare. The Council looked at her. “This is what you're in love with?” she laughed, hands gesturing to the feral mutant's hairy body. “Resurrection has undoubtedly messed with your head, Summers. I've had him. He's not that great. At least not great enough to break the law for.”

“This,” she continued, her form becoming that of Jean, “She's far too good for you. You should be lucky that she even remembers your name.” Turning back to herself, she smiled wickedly. “I think the Boy Scout should be banished for breaking the law.”

Sabretooth. Destiny. Mystique wanted to punish Xavier by demanding that his favorite son be thrown into the depths of Krakoa, or so Scott thought. But her words did more damage than what he expected. Once an argument just over his relationships, became one about punishment and what was deserved. 

It was Doug who finally broke up the fights between them, his voice calm, his hand upon Krakoa's ground. He listened carefully to the island, whispering back and forth in that strange language that even Apocalypse did not fully understand. “Do you love him?” Cypher finally asked, his eyes round with questioning.

Looking across the Council, Cyclops felt suddenly ashamed of his feelings. To admit it, to reveal his love for Wolverine – no matter how often Emma had encouraged it – seemed shameful and embarrassing. But, he straightened up, held his chin high. “Yes,” he said. “I love Logan.”

Silence.

The Council whispered – appealing to Xavier for their votes. Scott could do nothing but watch as the sides divided. In the end, he lost.

“Cyclops,” Charles said, his voice steady – even after abstaining from the vote – “You will cease intimate relations with Wolverine, and produce a child with Jean Grey. If you neglect the will of the Council, then you will be punished.”

“And, what would that punishment be?” Scott asked.

“We will discuss it if the time comes. But, I hope that you are not foolish enough to think that we will not see your lack of duty.”

A glance toward Jean hidden by red lenses, then his father figure. Both wore grim masks, hiding their sadness at his choice. Disappointment was long his enemy, letting people down, feeling like he failed.

“Can I go now?” he asked, his voice higher than it should have been.

“And where do you think you should go?” Magneto asked.

“To finish my mission.”

“Cyclops,” Xavier assessed. “You just died. Again. You need your rest. You need time with Jean.”

The Captain Commander shook his head. “With all due respect, sir, I know what I'm doing. I need to go.”

“What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing.”

“You're lying.” 

Scott could feel the tendrils of thought interrupt his own, the meandering, the digging. He guarded against all he could, but with Cerebro in play, his defenses (no matter how good they were) didn't cut it. Xavier was stronger, more able. He cut into Scott's mind like a razor, bringing the man to his knees. First it was his relationship with Wolverine – the love, the want, the need. How Scott didn't realize Jean was alive again, and then, sloughing her off in order to hide his affections. Cyclops could feel the disappointment shiver throughout his skull. But, he remained firm. 

But, the Professor cut deeper, delving further into long hidden parts of Scott's mind. “The meeting is adjourned,” he said, issuing the Council outside of the Chamber. “I will call you back shortly.” Then to Scott, kneeling on the floor, “What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing.”

“You lie.”

“Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me the truth.” A Cerebro bound Xavier was nothing to be trifled with. For minutes into an hour, they played hide and seek with Scott's thoughts. Cyclops burying the memories of Abbie Roth here and then there, Xavier seeking them out like a blood-hound. But, it was a pointless game. With the power of the machine upon him, Charles was always bound to win. “Scott, she's amazing.”

Breathless, on edge, ready to kill, if need be, he pressed fingers to his visor. “Sir, you need to forget about her.”

“She could be the answer, Scott. The way to end all of our worries.”

“Or she could be your destruction.” 

Charles was well aware of the threat. As he delved through the Captain Commander's mind, rehashed old memories that were meant to be private, he came to know Abbie in a way that he shouldn't have. “You've protected her from me, specifically.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

There was a silence that unnerved the telepath. One that made him fretful, anxious. He wasn't used to these feelings, even as they intertwined with his thoughts. Roth was a resource, someone who could set them free from all human oppression, someone who could help him see the path forward into peace and unity and coexistence. But, Cyclops – the man he called his son – doubted him. “Why, Scott?”

“You will do anything to obtain the future of mutants, even if that means destroying her in the process.”

“I'm not violent, Scott--”

“Aren't you?” Red visor turned to the floor. “Danger, my brothers, myself.” He looked up then, his face a mangled picture of hope. “My whole life, you've raised me to die for your cause. And, I will gladly do so again and again, but Abbie... She shouldn't have to face that. She's too dangerous to bring into the fold. The questions you will ask her. The questions Magneto, Apocalypse, Mystique will ask her. She needs to be left alone, to live her life in solitary, sir. She doesn't need us. In fact, we're the last thing she needs.”

“I'm sorry you feel that --”

“Would you kill them?” Scott asked. “Those who tried to harm us? Maybe not with your own hands, but with Wolverine's or Jean's? With my own? Would you ask for us to bring blood, to take life?”

Xavier scoffed. “Of course not --”

“Then why have so many on your Council?” Ruby red visor was relentless. “You don't even trust yourself. Why would I trust _you_?”

The comment bit, and Xavier pulled his mind back from Scott's thoughts. “She could save us. Isn't that important to you?”

“Don't do this, Professor. You need to erase her from your thoughts, just like you did before.”

“Before?”

“When I first met her, you invaded my mind to find out what I was hiding. Just like now. An intrusive search, but once I explained my reason for keeping her from you, you erased her from your memory. I'm asking you to do the same now. Not just for her sake, but for the sake of all mutants. Her ability is too dangerous to be shared.” Scott projected his fears then, sending out thoughts of war and turmoil, of blood-thirsty battles and hellscapes. 

Charles cringed at the thoughts. “I can't let you go back out today,” he said. “You need rest. You need time with Jean.” Scott opened his mouth to argue. “It's the will of the Quiet Council, my son. Jean is your priority right now.”

“My priority is the mission. I need to --”

“In the morning, then. I'll let you go in the morning.”

There was a long, defeated pause from Cyclops. Again, he could feel Charles in his head. Again, he projected forth images of blood and violence, the madness that could be induced by her power. He set the mutants against each other, dividing them into civil war, tearing the very Council apart at its core, and resetting the world in an apocalyptic event. “I don't trust any of you with her,” he said quietly. “Not even Kurt.”

Xavier leaned back in his chair. Though he was ashamed to admit it, the Captain Commander had made a very good point. There was too much potential for corruption with her power. Too much lee-way for this incredibly fragile country to come undone. Another askance for erasure, and Charles nodded. “As valuable as she could be for us, your fears are not unfounded. There are those who would take advantage of her gift.” 

Scott watched as Charles folded hands under his chin, his head dipping down, and a momentary stall in the usual psychic buzz around the X-men's founder. When he was done erasing the memories of Abbie Roth from his mind, he again explained his position concerning Jean and the Council's vote. “We need your children, Scott. We need strong mutants if we are to survive.”

With Jean at his side, he returned to the moon. “You should lay down, Scott,” she said quietly. “I'll wake you in a little while.”

In his mind, he could feel a gentle sweep of love, encouragement. “It's going to be okay, my love.” He could feel the gentle tug of sleep in his already overwrought brain, and try as he might, he could no longer stay awake. Jean caught him in a telekinetic embrace, moved him through the house and into his bedroom. She took him to the bathroom, where she properly cleaned him, taking extra care when she shaved his face. He looked brand new, but she knew that he was haunted.

She decided on a chicken salad for dinner. Though not her best dish, it was one that Scott would eat often because of its health value. The great thing about living on the moon was that they had their own greenhouse that Ororo and Nature Girl visited often in order to keep the plants healthy and vibrant. Not once since they came here, had Jean worried about produce. 

She could feel her husband's nightmare from the kitchen, and with a psychic lull, she calmed him back into a deep sleep – the best way for him to recover. In an hour, he would be refreshed, ready to talk, to reconnect, to pick up where they had left off. She loved him, and she knew that he loved her, too.  
They just needed time together. She'd been dead for so long. 

When dinner was ready, she gently nudged her husband awake with pleasant dreams and green fields where they could lay about and love each other. She remembered those days, when that was all he wanted – a place of quiet where they could grow old together and die in each others arms. 

Scott was not relieved to see her. Dressed now, in beige slacks and a button down, he stood in the entryway unmoving. “Chicken salad,” she said, and invited him to sit. “I know you're hungry.”

Silence.

Without a choice he moved to the table and took his seat. Red gaze remained on the food, and not at her. “I missed you,” she said, but that only made the stress more palpable. Finally, knowing that she'd upset him, “We just need time, Scott. Together.” She put into his head the day of their marriage, how nervous he was, how happy they were. “I want to have that again. I want us to have that again.”

Her tears made him feel guilty. “What if I don't want the same thing?”

“At least let's try, okay? That's all I'm asking.”

They ate in silence after that, each returning to their rooms. Any minute now, he would walk through her door, ready to ravish her like he once did. He'd always been a devout lover, thorough, giving. He knew all of those spots upon her body, the places that would make her shiver and moan, hold her breath, elicit the building of her nerves. He knew how to please her, and as she continued to think about it, she projected the images into his head. “Come to me, Scott. Show me how much you love me.” 

It took ages for him to arrive, and her worries showed inside of his mind. Again, she begged him to come, and then reminded him of the Council's ruling. “Please,” she spoke, her fears bringing a fresh round of tears to her eyes. “I need you.”

He was fully dressed when he entered the room, his head bowed. He went to speak, but as she washed his mind with comfort, he found that he couldn't. “Come here, Scott,” she said, whisking off his shirt with telekinesis. Kneeling on the bed, she ran her hands down perfect abs, straining her fingers between the belt and pants. “It will take time to reconnect, Scott,” she purred, undoing the belt and the pants nearly at the same time. “It will take time for us to discover each other once again.”

Dropping his boxers to the floor, she coaxed him to step out of them. Soft, guilt-ridden, he stood there as she placed her mouth to his body, tracing kisses from navel to manhood. His body reacted, but he remained as cold and distant as he had at dinner. “Scott?” She paused, green eyes searching for emotion on his face. “It's for the good of Krakoa,” she said at last, and she could see the blush of guilt light upon his cheeks.

“Let's just get this over with,” he said darkly, taking his member into his own hand. He thought of nothing, of no one, just the act itself, to get it finished as quickly as he could. And he did so. Though she tried to kiss, tried to enjoy herself, he was done, his body spent. He grabbed his clothes and disappeared leaving Jean alone and empty.

She cried herself to sleep.


	7. Blood on the Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger appears at the slavers' base.

The only light came from the flashlight propped up to spout awareness of the kid's neck and the knife pressed to it. Sleeping on the damp prison floor now - Myard finally giving him a much needed break from standing - the kid lit into soft dreams. Logan couldn't tell if they were nightmares or not.

They'd finally removed Scott's dead body from the floor. Three days he watched his lover stiffen and decompose. It wasn't out of pity for Wolverine that they buried him, but rather the smell. Myard could no longer stand it.

Then, there was the daily injection. Some sort of serum developed from the mutants above that kept the soldiers awake, kept them healthy and ready. It also put them on edge, made them prone to temper. It was the worst in the initial ten minutes, but even so, his dutiful guard was cool headed even under pressure. Logan figured that he was ex-military thanks to posture and his overwhelming disposition to taking orders from Mayfield. 

And, his rapt attention.

Not once did Trenton remove his focus on his task. His knife so steady against the kid's neck, his breath so even. All the while, his cloudy blue eyes stayed directly on Logan, looking for the slightest flinch that would set off the killing spree in the underground prison. Too many children held hostage by too-aware men, and Logan couldn't think his way through the problem.

He'd asked them why they killed Scott. They didn't give an answer. Logan had to wonder how much of this was unexpected for the group. Abbie's plans for them – as far as he knew – didn't include the capture of Wolverine and the death of Cyclops. He had to guess that that was why they were being so careful with disseminating information. They didn't want to be caught unaware again.

Mayfield entered the cell as he did everyday at this time, checking in on the progress of his soldiers and the serum he was injecting them with. He took note of any redness, swelling. He'd been a scientist in the military – or so Logan figured. A genetic engineer, or some such nonsense that he didn't understand. He was too careful with results to have been anything else. In too many ways, the man reminded him of Hank and the dark places that the blue behemoth would often go when presented with an obstacle he couldn't simply solve. 

Mayfield wanted more than just the eradication of mutants, but what that 'other' was, Logan had no idea.

He glared at Wolverine for long moments, his dull green eyes staunch with hatred. “I know how to kill you,” he said. “I know how to kill your children. Those you think of as family.”

It was a taunt. One to get him angry. There was a plan at play, something that Eldridge Mayfield wanted from him – that red-headed supremacist. Logan had to figure out what it was.

“I'm a long way from family. What makes you think that I --”

“What tamed you, Wolverine?” the taller man asked, dipping down to haunches to look straight into blue eyes. “Was it really just family, or was there something else in play? Psychic meddling, syringes?”

A long silence as Wolverine contemplated Mayfield's words. Myard – his clear blue eyes – waited in ready silence. “Wisdom, bub. Wisdom.”

Eldridge laughed. A deep, hearty gut shaking laugh that woke the kid from his not-so-peaceful slumber. Scared, he started to sit up, only to feel the blade pressed against his neck. “You, creature, are not wisdom. Perhaps your counterpart was, but he's dead now. There is no way for you to stop us, unless you want to be responsible for the deaths of dozens of children.”

Logan growled, respite to the concrete wall that held him still. There were no magnets that held him, no binds, but he felt it. The means to keep him in stasis. The child stared wide-eyed at him, hoping beyond life that he didn't move, that Wolverine didn't give in to the instinct that he was renowned for. “Don't worry,” he told the child. “I'm in control.”

But, the poor kid didn't believe him. A struggle ensued. The child raised himself, kicking out his legs and arms, trying to belay his fate. Trenton only pushed the knife down further, cautioned him, warned him, and then with one subtle swipe, told him that he was a fool. “Next!”

Seconds passed. Seconds where Logan could react, but he was so stunned by the child's death that he couldn't move. 

“Thank you,” Myard said, as the girl was handed to him. Bald-headed and sedate, she was nothing like a fighter. She didn't intend to live. She prayed for death. Her mutant side, her human side. Though she could move mountains with her power, she knew that it was not for the world that she had become accustomed to. She wanted pain, for her own inadequacies. She wanted pain for being different.

Wolverine howled her disgrace. His raspy base becoming tenor. He knew what lay beyond death. He'd experienced it personally. “Leave her alone!” he finally managed.

“Why?” Mayfield asked, still observant. Still so fucking observant.

“I'll tell you,” Logan finally managed as the electric of wands coursed through him and the water at his feet. It wasn't much, but it was enough. He knew this pain. He knew that it could last forever. Wolverine and water were not friends. “You have to let her go, first.”

There was all out laughter. Trenton being callous, his aids being even more so. There was no chance for this girl. Logan grieved her. Her body, her spirit. She was so much more than what they had made of her, but still, he couldn't be the cause of her death. 

Three deep breaths, and he waved off the bulky tasers, swatting at them like gnats. He pushed himself back against the wall, removing his feet from the puddle. Barely awake, the girl mumbled for an end to things. No, he couldn't be the reason for her death. He needed to be the reason for her life.

Mayfield grunted, smug, arrogant, but before he could speak again, the alarm sounded, and the Sargent swiftly left the room heading for the control room in the upper reaches of the base.

Multiple screens logged the outside of the building – some focused on the slaves, some on the grounds. The one that drew his attention the most was on the right hand side at the bottom. There, a man stood with a large case and surrounding him were twenty guards, their guns poised to kill. “What's going on?” Mayfield demanded.

“The guy walked up to the gate demanding to speak with you. He says he's got a present,” the young woman replied, zooming in on the man in question. Tall, slim, his skin as sun-burnt, his hair pitch black. Thin lips, and a stubbled chin, the man looked determined to get inside. “Ask him what's in the case,” he commanded through com. 

“Already did that sir,” a one of the men on the ground answered. “He said it's a way to kill Wolverine.”

Mayfield had already taken into account the rapid healer and his clones, learning from Abbie Roth that if he altered the power dampeners he found on Genosha, they would be strong enough to induce adamantium poisoning. The technology was still in production, but by the end of the month, the tech division promised that it would be ready. “Tell him we already have --”

The man looked straight into the camera and smiled. He put the large case on the ground, opening it to the sudden worry of the soldiers. They stepped in closer, their guns pressed against his prone body, but the man continued without fear. Once the danger had passed, and the case was open, they got a clear look at a power dampener strong enough to wipe out mutant powers in a five mile radius.

Impressed, Mayfield took time to measure his words. “What does he want for it?”

Silence. “He wants to be the one to throw the switch. He wants to be the one to kill Wolverine.”

Eldridge had a great many questions for the man – how he knew that Wolverine was here; how he knew about the technology needed to kill him; who he was; what he truly wanted. But the man – after showing his hand – refused to answer further questions until he spoke to Mayfield in person. 

Green eyes stared at the man onscreen, zooming in tight to capture that rebellious face. He didn't trust this stranger, but he truly trusted no one. Not even Myard, though he'd known his Lieutenant for years. But, what he had was valuable. Not just the dampener itself, but the knowledge to build more just like them. It would move his plans for Krakoa up by weeks, instead of the months they needed to construct the things. “Fine. Take him to the decontamination room. Have him bring his case, too.”

A large steel table sat in the center of the decontamination room, a series of shower heads to the right and the vats of chemicals they were hooked up to on the left. Sterile, the scent of chemicals harsh, the room reminded Mayfield of a hospital, and in some small way, that stretched his nerves even thinner. 

He hated hospitals. Field hospitals especially. But, there was no greater way to keep himself alert than putting himself into an uncomfortable situation. Patiently, he waited for his guest to arrive.

The man extended a hand upon his entrance – which Eldridge did not take. Green eyes looked him up and down, coming up with rapid conclusions about the man and his usefulness. “Why shouldn't I just kill you now?”

The man took a seat, leaning back in the chair. More relaxed than he should have been considering there were five guns tracking his every move. “I can be a valuable ally.”

“How so?”

“You want the end of mutants, and so do I.”

It was times like this when he wished Myard was doing the interrogation. The man could sniff out a lie in seconds flat. He had an uncanny knack for it. He called it microexpressions, learned it from reading a book by some detective. Eldridge called it good-for-business. “Why?”

“Shouldn't I ask the same --”

“Why?”

“Your prisoner killed my wife and my youngest son when on a berzerker rampage that the Canadian government ignored. Then, the mutants scooped him up and have protected him ever since. I want him to die. To make him suffer like I did. I want to kill him, his children, his friends. I want him to know what loss is.”

Mayfield couldn't help the smirk the clipped the right side of his face. The stranger was indeed dripping in palpable hatred for the mutant. “What's your name?”

“Rick Smith.”

It was a common name, too common to find information on, and Mayfield took note of that instantly. “So, you really want to kill mutants?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

With a wave of hand, he motioned for Smith to follow him through the hallways of the base. With guns pointed towards his back, and the precious dampener still in his hands, he walked eyes forward behind Mayfield. At the end of a hall was a large door, its window lit by pale blue light. This was one of the labs, and inside it were monstrosities.

A dozen mutant children hooked up to various machines, their blood being taken out and replaced with fluids unknown to man. Their skin being dissected from their bones, tested and treated with phenomena, and then sewn back in place. Most of the children were barely alive, the experiments had been so extensive. Surviving solely because of machines, with doses of sedation that they ultimately could not survive their withdrawal. 

Mayfield watched as the creepy smile crossed Smith's face. Licking his lips, the ebon haired man put down his cherished case, and stepped slowly closer to the first bed on the left. 

She was little more than thirteen years old, her last birthday spent in confinement. She could control winds – not like Storm, but more like a breeze to the farmers who helped work her family's fields, or keep a baby bird from hitting the ground. She wasn't a fighter. She was just a little girl who just happened to be a mutant. 

From the criss-cross stitching across her skin, to the black and green patches of treated flesh, there was no way she would live much longer. But, instead of letting her waste away under the drugs that they forced into her veins, Rick Smith picked the child's head from the bed, smoothed one hand down her cheek. In that instant, she woke – her deep, dark eyes glassy and afraid. The thick drugs stole her struggling away from her, made her lie limp in the man's hold. “Don't worry, child,” he said in hushed tone. He brushed her cheek again with the back of his hand, and took a knife from his pocket.

The soldiers responded immediately, their guns pressed against the felt of the stranger's hat, but Mayfield signaled for them to stand down. 

Letting go of the girl's neck, he grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her up from the bed. He angled his knife just right so that when he cut the scalp, long locks of hair came with it. When he was done, she lumped onto the bed, her eyes so wide and teary, the man only smiled and wished her goodnight. Both hands on her head, he broke her neck, instantly killing her. 

It was a ceremony, a debase one, but one that held some sort of sacredness for this Rick Smith. Mayfield watched intently as he moved from bed to bed, took the scalps of the children and laced them into his belt one by one, breaking their necks when he was finished. He could see the grief in the man, perhaps still longing for his departed son and wife, these fresh deaths causing him to relive the horror over and over again. 

The guards stayed still, though their rifles followed his every move throughout the lab. Some were unnerved by his actions, how he tendered tears from the children's faces, telling them that it would be over soon, before killing them and dropping their lifeless husks without care. 

Smith was a merciless man, even more so than Mayfield himself.

When he was done, he looked at the Sargent, took in those studying green eyes. “Is this your only lab?”

Mayfield explained the serum that they had been working on, and how it would cure Smith of his grief. “You'll act with pure logic once the adrenaline settles down. It will keep you alert, focused. You won't need sleep--”

“My grief fuels my work,” Smith replied, and asked again for the other labs.

Fifty bloody scalps hung from his belt when the stranger was finally finished. The slavers fell quiet, the massacre having made them fearful. Though they hated mutants, that one man could be so bloodless had given them pause. They looked to Mayfield, then, unsure of his thoughts.

“I guess you want to see Wolverine, now?” he asked quietly, no longer suspicious of the man's motives. 

“I would,” Smith answered.

“Very well. Follow me. Once he's dead, there are a few more mutant prisoners below. I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself with them.”

Smith smiled. On the way, Mayfield described Abbie's plans and how best to kill the rest of the mutants. With Rick's expertise on the dampeners, they could wage their war in just a matter of weeks.

Down in the prison, in the darkness, Wolverine kept his inner rage subdued. Myard had been silent since the alarm went off, and the child had woken up in a series of small, tearful sniffles. Logan knew better than to talk to her. Trenton would only kill her, and then find another child.

But, then, the scent. Faint at first, so much so that he thought he was imagining it. Scott Summers. He'd come back. He'd come back here.

Logan's mind scrambled for meaning, for something other than resting upon the wall trying to keep the child alive. He shifted in his seat, only for Myard to twist the knife against the girl's neck, bringing out a slow trickle of blood. The scent of it brought Logan back down. 

Surely, Scott had a plan.

Wolverine was entranced by the footfalls, the door that squeaked open. The shred of light that eclipsed the figures as they entered the room. Mayfield, the guards, and finally Scott Summers, disguised as someone he did not recognize. He studied the ghost of Scott for long moments, the scent of blood tingling at his senses. He didn't look bruised or beaten. Of course, he didn't look like himself at all. He had to be using one of Kurt's image transducers. That was the only explanation. 

Placing the case on the floor, Smith smiled viciously at the older mutant, and a long, slow laugh escaped curdled through the air. “You know who I am, right?”

After a brief silence, Logan finally managed to speak. “Yeah. I know who you are.” Blue eyes scoured the man before him, finally settling upon the scalps laced into belt. “What the hell did you do?” he asked breathlessly.

“I thought you'd think me charitable, Wolverine.”

“Charitable? How could--”

“I put them out of their misery. Each and every one of them.”

In the back of his mind, Logan screamed, but his face stayed perfectly still and angry. Scott had too much faith in The Five. Or maybe Logan didn't have enough. 

He studied the man in front of him, how collected he was, calm. Completely in character, his monstrous act put to the side to be dealt with at a later time. He had a plan, but what that plan was, he couldn't tell. He only hoped that Scott would find some way of sharing it with him before the slavers attacked Krakoa.

Kneeling, Scott trembled a hand over the top of the case, taking his time to click it open. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, his voice low and confident. Logan shook his head. “It's a power dampener. It's going to cut off your healing factor, leaving you exposed to adamantium poisoning.”

Blue eyes watched as the man called Rick Smith put the pieces of the dampener together. It took all but three minutes for the box-shaped machine to be completed, and with a flick of switch, the machine was brought to a low hum. Scott took off his glasses – revealing one brown eye and one glass of a milky blue, proving to Logan that ultimately, the machine worked.

His brain scrambled for meaning, for some way out of this, but there was nothing he could do – not with the children still in danger. “You're going to die,” the strange voice of Rick Smith said. “In three hours, you will be so sick that you can't move. In three days, you'll be begging for death. In five, your heart will not beat for the poison running through your system. Your greatest strength is your greatest weakness, Wolverine. And, I've researched it thoroughly.”

It was a glitch, the timeline. Three hours? Three days? Months. Months before the poison would kill him. That was the clue. What he needed. He would become the theatric; the man unafraid to portray sickness, lack of health. He would become what Scott asked him to be, for the sheer reason that he could think of nothing else to remove himself from this situation.

Rick Smith leaned against the wall, his glasses still up on top of his head. With one brown eye, he looked towards Trenton Myard. “I will kill her soon,” he said of the mutant in his hands. Pale blue eyes looked to Mayfield. 

“He's not serious.”

“He is.”

“You're going to let him control this?”

“I am.”

And, with that, there was no more fight in the soldier. His orders were clear. Answer to Rick Smith, and that was it. “Give her to me.”

“He's not sick yet.” 

“Yes, he is.” 

Myard – still distrusting – decided to test Scott's theory, taking out his knife and walking across the room. With one swipe, he cut the man from neck to shoulder, watching as he bled out. “He'll die now,” Trenton said. “Quicker than you like.”

Myard smiled as the blood swam from Logan's throat. A vein, an artery. It would take at least an hour for him to bleed out and die, so long as the dampener was on. Yes, he still had his claws – no matter the machine, his claws could not be taken away, but his hand stayed firmly on his neck trying to quell the blood. Scott had a plan, and sooner or later, he would realize that Logan didn't understand it.

Before Trenton could return to his watch, Smith had already taken girl into his lap. He smoothed her hair back from her face. She was no longer sedated like others. No, she was wide awake now, and though she had wanted to die, a small morsel of her still clung to life. She was in danger, and she began to struggle.

“Sshh,” Scott whispered in her ear. “This won't take long.” He ran his hand across her cheek, settling her down from her attempts at escape. Mayfield and the others watched with horrid fascination. “This won't take long at all.”

The slice of metal in the air, and Logan turned towards the scene, the blood pooling around his fingers, his heart rapid-fire in his chest. He wanted to yell out, to run wild across the cell, but he'd already ruined Summers' plans once. And, so, helplessly he watched as his lover cut the scalp from the little girl and broke her neck. If it weren't for the wound and the blood gushing in his throat, he would have cried.

Rick Smith then turned his attention to Wolverine. “You see,” he said quietly, devoid of emotion. “Charitable. She won't have to watch you die.” Ridding himself of the body, he told Mayfield that he'd be back, and to take care of the prisoner. “Don't let him die before I return. I want to see his final breath.”

Logan's heart sunk further at the realization that Scott was trying to free him, the blood on his hands an oath of his love. He knew this would haunt him, but not as much as Scott's killing spree would haunt his partner. 

Scott and grief did not sit well with each other.

But, before Logan could douse himself in pity, Trenton and Eldridge began to speak, and Logan soon realized this had also been part of Scott's plans. “That was unexpected,” Myard murmured, staring down at the girl's body. “You going to let him kill the slaves, too?”

“I don't think he's interested in killing humans.”

“I don't trust him,” the younger man said outright. “There's something about him that's off.”

Eldridge took his words seriously, but in the end, he'd seen what the stranger was capable of. “He knows the tech. He said he'll up us build more.”

“You told him about Krakoa?”

“In so many words. He already an idea about it.”

“And you don't find that the least bit suspicious?” No, Trenton didn't know how Roth's powers worked either. Jai Kim had never explained it, or rather he wasn't given time to explain before they put him into the fields to dig for osmium like the other slaves.

“I didn't tell him about the rest of our plans, and he didn't ask. He doesn't need to know what the osmium is for or even that we're mining it. We just need him to help us destroy Krakoa.”

Logan – eyes closed to feign inattention – kept pressure on his wound, and listened as the two men discussed the war that they would wage once the mutants were out of the way, and their plans to make the world a better place by forcing the serum upon its people. To them, Earth could not defend itself if it was so torn apart from within by fighting factions of heroes and incoming space aliens. They planned to cleanse the world of genetic aberrations and force the others into submission by quelling their emotions with their chemicals. The weapons would be used to keep the Earth out of the universal chokehold it was now in. Earth would become the greatest planet, and all would fear them.

Logan felt himself going weak from the blood loss. It was harder and harder to stay awake. The door opening gave him hope that Cyke was ready for him, especially when he caught the scent of fresh death upon the man. He heard a quiet chuckle, and then the man seating himself. “He'll pass out soon,” Rick mused. 

“You really a psychopath, aren't you?” Myard grumbled.

“You don't know the half of it,” was Smith's reply.

“Let him have his fun,” Mayfield said, dragging Trenton by the elbow and out into the hallway, leaving Scott alone with Logan at last.

Quickly, he scrambled across the floor and turned off the machine, giving Logan several minutes to recover from the injury. “You have to play dead,” he whispered at the man. “You have to act sick, play dead. I have a plan.”

“Scott, they're going to wage war --”

“I know. I know about the osmium. I heard everything they said. But, you have to trust me this time. I'm shutting this down.”

With the mutants now dead and no longer usable as a weapon, Logan would be buried in one of the mines, away from the dampener. “A shallow grave,” Cyclops explained. “You'll have to dig yourself out.” He would wait for the cover of night before he rose, however, using the darkness to disguise his movements across the acreage. “There are three dozen guards watching over the slaves. Take them out, and lead the slaves to the ship.”

“What about you? What are you --”

“Don't worry about me. Just get the slaves to safety.”

“Jai Kim is one of them.”

Steel jawed, Scott choked down the sudden burst of anger. He checked Logan's wound, satisfied that it had healed, and turned the dampener back on. Kneeling over the body, he dipped his fingers in Wolverine's blood and marked his face with them, and began to laugh loudly.

Though alarmed, worried about Scott's plan, Logan obeyed and played dead as Cyclops carried off his role without a hitch.


	8. A Plan Emerges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott makes a discovery that he turns into an advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone. It's been quite a month, and I struggled with getting this done. I'm not sure that I'm quite happy with the chapter, but I wanted to post something to let y'all know that I haven't abandoned the fic, it was just on hiatus. Anyway, it does further the plot along, so I hope you still stay engaged.

Scott sat on the edge of the bed – a hard knot in his throat - staring at the scalps scattered out on the threadbare gray cover. The mattress was little more than springs and the soiled white covering, but it didn't matter. He searched the room for twine, for thread, coming upon many anomalies, but the small spool of fishing line was his most important find at the moment. Carefully,he scraped the skin from his piles of hair, wrapped them in the slick, transparent line. Sacred, a ceremony. Each one he remembered, each one he refused to cry for.

He knew why he did it. Why he killed them. It wasn't just that they wouldn't survive; wasn't just the immense pain that they were in. If he was honest with himself – and the guilt rushed through him and made him nauseous at the realization – he needed to keep his cover in order for Mayfield to trust him. 

Once again, the world – his motives - came before anything else. A trait that he'd hoped he'd finally outgrown.

With stomach mashing, and heart pounding, he calmed himself by braiding those shocks of hair. He worked solemnly, his grimness refusing to allow the outpouring of the monstrous emotion he felt, but also efficiently. Someone could walk in on him at any moment.

When he finished, he placed the braids in his jacket pocket, hiding them from prying eyes. 

It was obvious that there were no cameras in the room, something Cyclops found curious. A man like Myard should insist upon it, and Mayfield should not have overlooked them. But, still, he had an odd feeling that there was more at stake than what he saw on the surface. Carefully searching, he finally found a listening device, and at first glance, he knew exactly where it had come from.

Walking the hallways now were a little more difficult. He could only imagine the bugs and cameras implanted in the walls. He wondered who the mole was, who had infiltrated this organization so deeply that they had gone undetected. And, was it for the drug? That ominous fluid that shut off emotional reactions? That kept men awake for days in a row? Or was it for the osmium being mined by the human slaves within the acreage, and the weapons that the osmium could produce?

Though he had a lot of questions for these listeners, he had to destroy the cabal first.

Myard was already in his seat by the time Cyclops arrived. Distrusting, skeptical, he watched as the stranger entered the decontamination room and sat to the left of Mayfield. Scott didn't look around, didn't impose, but waited for the others to start the meeting. “Half the slaves have escaped,” said one of the followers. His words came hollow at first, a distance to them, as if they meant nothing, but soon Myard's eyes rounded and he stared at his fellow soldier.

“What do you mean half the humans have escaped?” he balked.

“Just what I said. This morning, at head count, half the numbers were gone.”

“And you didn't ring the alarm?”

“By the time I noticed, it was meeting time. So I'm telling you now.”

Cyke watched the man across from him turn red. The fury that lit against his cheeks, the rage that drew his mouth into a snarl. In many ways, it reminded him of his lover's berzerker rage, though eventually, as he had come to learn, Wolverine would work through it. Calm himself, be something other than an animal. He wasn't sure that Myard could.

The needle came out. Mayfield's hand outstretched, placing his vial just at the edge of Myard's neck. At first the anger flowed – became like fire. He pounded his fists upon the table, hit his head upon the wall. He bloodied his knuckles combating the chemical showers, the drums that fueled the paranoia. He gnashed his teeth against the barrels, bit hard into the metal rims. Scott stared at the rabid man behind dark glasses, his visage hiding his fear over this substance.

It took five minutes for Trenton to come back to himself, to calm, to take his seat. Five minutes more before he was ready to speak, and even then, he drew his knife. “Half the slaves?” he asked again, the knife like a toy in his hand. The man nodded, his blue eyes focused on Myard's blade. “When?”

“Last night,” the man gulped. “The guards were knocked out. The slaves escaped. We've sent scouts to look for them, but --”

“How will you prevent the rest from escaping?” Myard asked, his deep voice growling. Scott noticed the flicker of another needle in Mayfield's hand. The soldier shrugged, not sure how to answer. 

“Maybe that needs to be _your_ plan,” Scott said outright, letting the other man off the hook. Myard glared at him with disdain. “You seem to have all the answers. Figure out a way to stop the slaves from escaping, unless, you're the one allowing them to leave.”

The accusation caused immense scrutiny in the group. From Mayfield to the techs, the soldiers to the guards. Not a one could close their jaw after listening to Rick Smith's doubt about the situation. “You're a mutant sympathizer, aren't you?” Scott continued when Myard said nothing. “You don't want to destroy them. You want to save them. That's why you're letting the slaves go --”

“Enough!” Eldridge called into the din of surprise. “You will not insult my Lieutenant that way.”

“Fine,” Cyclops replied. “But, I think you're missing a big piece of the puzzle.”

All eyes were on Rick Smith – the panel, the cameras from the communications officers. He had crossed a line in bringing Trenton Myard into his conspiracy, but he could tell it left a lasting impression. Too many dropped jaws, wide eyes, silent mouths. Even Mayfield, after his admonishment, had chosen to be silent. “It's up to you,” Scott said, after his accusations had settled in. “You're the Commander of this operation. I'm just here to kill mutants.”

A longer silence as Mayfield studied both Cyclops and Myard. A second-too-long glance that made the rest of the room uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke. “Lieutenant, I'm putting you in charge of finding out how the slaves escaped, and making sure it doesn't happen again. Move the security cameras if you need to, take soldiers as you need, but we need to prevent anymore losses.”

Though visibly upset at the command, Myard took it quietly with gritted jaw. His blue eyes bore down on this Rick Smith, but the other man showed no sign of discomfort. He wasn't accustomed to this. His brawn, his growl. Most men would shake in their boots at the first time his rage seethed behind his eyes, quaking and shaking, hoping that the man didn't harm them. But, Smith didn't even flinch.

The Lieutenant listened to the meeting with fleeting attention. Smith would go down to the labs and work on the inhibitors, the others would continue their normal duties – working with the weapons, creating the serum, monitoring the grounds. It was the direction that pissed him off – that he wasn't the guard that had always been, watching the prisoners. But, the stranger across from him had killed them all off. There was no one left for him to guard.

Scott knew he had gotten to the brusque man, that he was already under his skin. It wouldn't take much to push him to a point where trust in him would break. He had a plan, he just hadn't found a way to execute it. He could make a prisoner of Myard, close him in the dungeon below, and from there he could work on dismantling the whole operation.

Cyclops gave Mayfield a dutiful nod, shuffled off to the lab where the tech to make the inhibitor was available. Copper wires and chemicals, sonic waves and tangible currents. He knew this tech back and forth – from both Genosha, itself, an from being captured during Operation Zero Tolerance. It was easy to piece it all together, but he stalled, took his time. There was no way he would let this happen by the end of the day, week, month. General Mayfield had expected three months, he said he could push it to two. That was enough to enact his plan – if only Logan would disappear the rest of the slaves.

He grinned at the operators – a half-crooked smile that made them wither. It was fanatical, devious, evil. He knew what effect he was having on them. “The cooling coil,” he said in a deep-whispered voice, “You have to hook it up like this.” He showed them the proper way to insert the coil – the blunt end engaged into two aluminum plugs, allowing the electricity to zing across them in a low-level buzz. Immediately, they could feel the effect – a cool breeze that lit across a fan. It was very much like a computer, the inhibitor was, and though he could piece it together within a day considering the parts that they had developed, he smashed it all off the table and demands new pieces. 

“These aren't right,” Scott howled, showing the techs the lumps and bumps in the transmitters, the photon exhibitors, the DNA blockers. He'd learned the tech – first and foremost – from the Genengineres on Genosha, but furthered his knowledge by watching both Beast and Reed Richards explore the ramifications of the Legacy Virus. “They have to be smooth, not welded. Complete pieces without markings.”

His group scrambled into the outer machinery, their lead and silver machines pumping to life and extruding the exact materials that Summers called for. It would take days for them to mold exact pieces, and for that, he was happy. It would give Logan more time to evacuate the slaves, and give him more time to figure out a way to take down Myard.

Without Myard, Mayfield would be vulnerable, open to suggestion. 

After hours of directing his task force, he finally returned to his room, settled down on the uncomfortable mattress and stared at the ceiling. The fact that he was being listened to the whole time still weighed uncomfortably in his mind, though, he was exhausted and refused to expend energy dealing with it. Undercover was impossibly aggravating to him. It would be so much easier to blast the soldiers to oblivion, but he knew there were more out there.

He had to bring the rest in. To convince Mayfield to order his troops back to the desert, to insist that they drop all operations and return to base. It was an incredibly risky tactic, but in order to take the company down, he would have to do it all at once.

His thoughts then shifted to Logan. His hope that his feral lover would not be caught. Not just because it would reveal his identity, but because he didn't want Wolverine to be tortured again. He could only imagine what Logan had been through during his time in prison, and a part of him was almost thankful that he had taken those mutant lives in order to free his partner from that pain. 

Again, the guilt rushed against him, and with the building bile in his stomach, he reached for his jacket where he tenderly touched the tendrils of hair that he so carefully braided. He reassured himself that the Five would bring them back to life, that they would live free, that Xavier had not recorded his malice against them. But, he questioned himself, would he forget? Was it enough? That he grabbed their hair and cut it from their scalp? That he made them look on in fear – dosed with drugs and immobilizing agents, giving them no chance to escape?

He took a deep breath, reminding himself that there were still things he needed to work through. His breakdown could come later. When he was alone, when the world was a little safer.

Night passed to day. Another feud with Myard in the meeting, and the afternoon and evening spent with the inhibitors. The others talked around him, meeting his silence with their own casual attitude, and through their chatter, he learned a great deal about the operations here. 

This was not the only compound, as Scott had expected. There were twelve of them, all stocked with serumed soldiers, and mostly involved in weapons training. The weapons were solely produced in this base, then sent on to the others. 

Mayfield entered the lab, watched their progress for long, silent moments. He noticed the men re-working the previous pipes and coils that they had already made. “Weren't up to snuff?” Eldridge asked.

“Shape was wrong, and sometimes the alloy. Inhibitors are very specific. You have to make them right.”

Mayfield was disappointed by the setback, but he understood the need for details here. With the bulk of his soldiers already training for the attack, he couldn't afford for his machinery to fail. Not with the mutants and their natural abilities. He shivered at the thought of facing down the storm goddess in her natural habitat. 

Myard had still not figured out how the humans were escaping, which had given some relief to Cyclops, but now was the time to use that to his advantage. “Have you ever thought that there might be a traitor in your midst?” A repetition of his argument against Myard a few days earlier. He wanted to see how Eldridge reacted.

The thought struck the Commander like a hammer. Green eyes narrowed and shifted right and left. He could have bore a whole into Smith's dark glasses, as if sucking the soul right out from underneath the lenses. “My soldiers are loyal to me,” he said, his voice deep and threatening.

Scott caught his glare, and didn't flinch. As soon as Mayfield's eyes diverted, he went back to working on the inhibitor. The thought was now entrenched. A little gnat that would buzz around the Commander's head until it started driving him crazy. A few more hints here and there, and Myard would lose his seat of power. 

Again that night, the alarms blared. More slaves had escaped, noticed in the now nightly counts every four hours. Myard's task force was scouring the area looking for them, their trail, the way in which they escaped, and each night, he came up short. 

By morning, over three quarters of the slaves were gone, and the rest exhausted from not having a full night's rest. Their work was slow, and that lack of speed aggravated the engineers in the weapons room. Scott pretended to be concerned with the situation – mostly in hopes of learning more about the osmium based weapons. But, there was little to be told – he was not yet trusted.

He saw the first camera in the hallway outside the lab. Small, barely bigger than a fingernail clipping. Round and shiny – surely no one but him would notice it. He didn't have time to snuff out the mole – not with Logan still evacuating the slaves, and definitely not with the progress that they were making on the weaponry. Though he was told the weapons were months away, he doubted the feedback.

“You're late,” Mayfield grumbled when Myard finally entered the meeting room. Dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, the man hadn't slept the entire night thanks to the break out. 

“Lieutenant,” the Commander began, his frustration with his most prized soldier apparent. “How many?”

“Forty five.”

“How?”

Blue eyes closed for a moment, a deep breath. He exposed his neck, needing the perk that the serum gave him. Mayfield obliged, driving it in as deep as he could go, and the Lieutenant buzzed with sudden energy. Minutes passed with deep breaths and flexed fists, a beat against the man's chest, and a deep growl. And soon, the serum had settled.

Cyclops wondered if there was an addictive quality to the strange drug, or if the people were treated so poorly that they could not survive without it. Since he'd been here, however, he'd heard no complaints about the drug, nor anyone pushing them to use it. 

“What are you looking at?” Myard seethed, his rage directed across the table. 

Cyclops shrugged, leaned back in his chair. The Lieutenant urged him again to say what was on his mind, this time with threat of injury. “I'm amazed that you can't find a bunch of half-starved, sleep deprived, ill human beings from escaping your mine.” Antagonistic, yes, but just what he needed to push the doped up Myard over the table with his hands wrapped around Scott's neck. “I don't want to fight you,” he said, pulling away the man's rough hands.

“Then don't,” he seethed.

“You'd risk your whole operation, then? On me? How flattering.”

Summers expected the knock to the head, countered with a swift palm to the soft of Trenton's chin. The larger man brushed back, heaving himself off the table and rushed at Rick Smith again. He clamored for flesh, to tear it apart and rip it to pieces. But, he had no idea the years Cyclops had trained for this exact reason. Every punch was met by a block, ever kick by a dodge. Scott was aware that he couldn't touch the man, not if he wanted this to work. “You need me for the inhibitors,” he breathed. 

“Damn the mission. I want to rip your head off right now!”

“Enough!” Mayfield's voice rang across the room. Not one among them wasn't wide-eyed with fear – both at the fight and at the Commander's raging tenor. “Lieutenant, return to your post. I want to know how the slaves are escaping before nightfall.”

Green eyes circled the room, giving each one of the soldiers that momentary glance that made them uneasy. Finally, he looked at his mysterious recruit. “None of you will ever damn the mission.” Then to Cyclops, “Sit.”

He took his seat to the left hand of Eldridge, barely stifling the snicker of a smile that wanted to cross his face. With the Lieutenant out of the room, he could make more of an impact on the meeting. He was the first to discuss his role in the operation. The inhibitors and their progress. They'd been delayed by badly made parts, but the parts were complete, and it would only be a matter of weeks until the inhibitors were up and running. The Commander seemed pleased with the news, and for the update. His lab workers had complained about the grueling pace that Rick Smith had set for them, but the results spoke for themselves. He was a driven man, and that tenacity would see the world rid of mutants in just a short while.

The next was a report from the weapons lab, and a certain missile they were creating. “It's ten times more devastating than a nuclear bomb,” one tech explained. “And has zero environmental after effects.”

“That's hard to believe,” the commander muttered.

“There will be dust of course,” the tech continued. “Debris, destruction, but no fall out. The osmium completely protects the thermal detonator from achieving atomic debris. It's pretty remarkable --”

The commander stroked his scruffy red beard, staring down at the schematics passed across the table to him. “And the guns will be as equally useless?”

The techs were stunned at the reaction. “Sir --”

Smith grabbed the blueprints from the commanders hands, quickly browsing the specs of both the bombs and the guns. At first, Mayfield was angry, but he bit his tongue knowing that Rick had a keen eye.

The weapons were truly dangerous – in the wrong hands, in the right hands. It didn't matter, these weapons could never see the light of day. Missiles, bombs, guns, even high tech gloves that could impart energy particles into a being causing a massive heart attack. Mayfield's soldiers would be unstoppable.

“Environmental destruction isn't your problem,” Summers said quietly, his finger again tracing the blueprints. “It's the toll on your army. How many are you willing to lose?”

If the Commander was skeptical, he didn't show it. Instead, the room remained quiet as the stranger continued to study the near transparent papers. “You have a limited army, and you will for a long time. None of these weapons are lethal enough to make the world bow at your feet after you destroy the mutants. There are still other heroes out there, and they are strong, and they will fight you. You have to plan for a long engagement, but even with your serum, these weapons are too taxing on the human body. You'll sacrifice too much blood and be left with no one to fight for you.”

He humbly went over the flaws in the designs. How triggers leaked energy, how the bullets had a high chance of exploding before discharge. Even the bombs that caused no environmental fall-out protected no one, as the trigger had to be too close to the battlefield in order for the soldier to evacuate. “All the training will mean nothing. Every one of these are deadly to the soldiers that wield them.”

By this time, the techs had crowded around watching as Rick Smith explained the faults in detail. “Where did these designs come from?” he asked.

“The mutant. Abbie Roth. We took down every aspect, every detail of what she said --”

“Never trust a mutant,” Cyclops warned, taking his seat once again at the left hand of Mayfield.

Abbie had known things, the future of things. She knew the answers to all of their questions. How to build the devices. How to train the army. She even knew about the osmium mines and how to best procure the metal. Jang Lee had told them that she couldn't lie, that she was valuable. But, now, facing evidence of her errors, the entire room held their breath in stunned silence. “It just delays things a little longer,” Smith said. “Your world will come about. But, you need to understand it first.”

The meeting was dismissed, with Mayfield calling Smith to stay behind. “You have quite an eye for things,” he remarked. “You an engineer?”

“No. A mechanic, maybe. Been around a lot of labs, though.” The Commander was still trying to judge his trust in Scott. 

“I'd never thought about the other heroes.”

Summers chuckled. “The mutants are the scary ones, but the others have the support of the people. That's going to make them just as difficult.”

“And how would you train an army to fight such difficult opponents?”

They talked well into the evening, each going back and forth between their ideas for the Fantastic Four, the Avengers, Wakanda, Atlantis. If the Inhumans return, the Champions, Spiderman. 

Dinner was served just past six o'clock – a simple ration of spaghetti and sauce, a slice of garlic bread, and a glass of water. Mayfield allowed no intoxicants in his bases, believing they would weaken the advantages of the serum. He was very controlling of the environment – from food and water intake, to the amount of rest each of his followers were allowed. Scott almost admired him for being able to take it all on. It was something he'd strived for most of his life, yet always seemed to fail.

Summers had many shortcomings as a leader, though others may not tell him openly. He was cold, calculating. Though he demanded loyalty in the field, he found it hard to ask for that kind of respect from his personal life. Logan had been the breath that he never knew he needed. But, now, that was all taken away. The Quiet Council had deemed it unlawful.

Realizing that he'd lost focus, he made an excuse to go to the bathroom and wind himself down from the welling guilt, grief, and gut-wrench that wallowed in his throat. He breathed in deeply, out slowly several times, renewing his iron grip on his composure. He could do this. He was trained to do this his entire life.

Stepping out into the hallway, he was greeted by a not-so-happy Myard. The bulkier man shoved at Cyke's shoulder, pushing him against the wall. “You even so much as try to interfere --”

His rage was again stopped short by Mayfield. Inwardly Scott smiled. He now knew the exact push to get rid of Myard. It was now just a matter of figuring out how to do it.

The Commander scolded his wayward Lieutenant, asking him if he'd solved the problem yet. When Trenton said no, Eldridge threatened him with the cells down below. The gnat buzzed. “Perhaps you _are_ the one helping them escape.” It didn't come out as a question, and Myard noticed that immediately.

“You seriously don't think --”

“Your job was simple. Stop the slaves from escaping. Yet, here they are, night after night, dwindling in numbers, and here I find you bullying Smith here instead of out there doing your job. Was he right, Trenton? Are you a mutant sympathizer?”

Myard was both shocked and appalled by the accusation. Fists clenched, jaw dropped, his blonde brow hovering so close to those blue eyes. He bared his teeth as he spoke. “He's gotten to you, hasn't he? Not even a week, and he's got you so wound around his finger.”

“You didn't answer the question.”

“No!” he yelled. “No, I'm not a mutant sympathizer. I've been on this road with you since the beginning, and now you're questioning my loyalty? Because of him?” Thick finger pointed to the stranger leaning against the wall. “Can't you see what he's doing? What he's doing to the mission?”

Mayfield looked deep into dark lenses, measuring the man beside him. He'd been honest, as far as he could tell. He knew things, important things, that only those inspired could know. From the inhibitors to the way the mutants would react, he was like an angel – so much more so than Abbie Roth. While Smith was still suspicious in some ways, he was trusted in others. Much more than Myard at this point, who continued to let the slaves escape without an explanation. 

The Lieutenant had been loyal for years, but what if all of that had been a ruse? Already, Smith had spoken of a traitor in their midst. A spy. A betrayer. What if those thoughts were true? What if Myard really was a mole hell-bent on bringing down his ultimate cause of having legions at his disposal to fight the worlds outside of Earth? Shield was doing nothing; Sword was even less competent. The only one to stand against the galaxy was himself, his weapons, his serum.

There was so much at stake, not just a dream, but protection. Idealization. Unity. No one would forgo the need to contribute. No one would question it. And, if they did, they would be decimated, as his osmium weapons would have nothing else. The galaxy would quiver at his might; would bow down to the Earth. There would be no diplomacy, only ultimate rule, and he would make sure that humans would fall in line.

“There are few slaves left,” Mayfield said. “Make sure they're here in the morning.” And, with that, he turned on heel, leaving Cyclops alone with the seething Lieutenant. 

“You have quite a task ahead of you,” Summers said.

“And so do you. Keeping up this guise? You won't last long.”

Later that night, the alarm rang for its final time. There were no more slaves in the mines. No trace of them. Myard had sent troops all over the desert – even to the shoreline – but there were no tracks, no transportation, nothing to track the slaves with. Scott wondered how Wolverine had done it, but he didn't question it . He was simply glad that his lover was free and that he could now concentrate on the rest of his plan.

Getting into Myard's room would be difficult, and he had yet to find a way in. Above the doorway, the planted cameras filmed everything, and with four bugs at each corner, he knew that the Lieutenant was a target. He could only imagine the devices inside the room. But, it wasn't the devices that worried him. It was Trenton, himself. 

The man was a storm, in and of himself. A hurricane, chaotic, and with his hatred for Rick Smith brewing, there was little chance for him to sneak inside. The buffer man seemed to ghost his footsteps, always appearing around the corner, walking towards him, lurking behind. He'd even caught him standing outside the door to his bedroom, his eyes deadly, jaw steeled. It wouldn't be long before Trenton lost himself to rage and tried to actually murder him. 

Thoughts still swirling in his mind, from the mission to Abbie to the listening devices and cameras, Summers couldn't sleep. His mind played out scenario after scenario, how he would finally enter Myard's room, where he would hide Abbie, to ending the plot against the world. He subdued himself quickly, suppressed the emotions that wanted to crack through his steely demeanor, but he wouldn't let them. He'd been through worse, he told himself. He could handle this.

Cyclops didn't hear the slight scuffle over top his room, nor see the watchful eyes that stared down at him through the vent. Slowly, carefully, as to continue the utter silence brought on by thick walls, the vent cover was removed, and the watcher slid down into the room, landing with an unfortunate thump.

Summers woke in a start, tipping up the dark glasses over his eyes. The beam was focused, relentless, and his attacker was slammed against the wall. Surveying the damage – a crushed metal wall, fallen maps, and a cloud of dust from the fallen shelves – he watched as a figure rose up from the rubble. “Damn, Slim,” he heard, “Here I thought we were friends.” A smile spread across Logan's face as he embraced his younger lover.

Scott pulled back. “Logan, what are you doing here? You were supposed to --”

“Don't worry,” the feral mutant eased. “They're safe. The captain's taking care of them. If not, I'll take care of him.”

Still uneasy by his companion's sudden appearance, he reminded the shorter mutant that he was also supposed to leave. That was the plan. That was what he had needed him to do. 

Logan rolled blue eyes and shrugged. “Ain't leaving you here, bub. Not on your own, not knowing what you're up against. Besides, you look exhausted. Figured I could watch over you tonight.”

If it weren't for the fact that he was terrified of Logan's sudden presence here, Scott would have fallen into his lover's arms, relieved, safe. But he held back, trying to see past this obstacle, to find some way to keep the older man out of sight.

“Scott,” Logan said quietly, a hand against high cheekbone. He could see the breakdown, the guilt, the worry. Though Summers' face barely moved, Logan knew where to look to find it. “Don't fall apart yet,” he continued. “The world still needs you.”

The taller man nodded, taking a deep breath and sitting on the bed. Wolverine knew that he could keep together, that he would reconfigure his plans, and make this work. He had faith in the Captain Commander, more faith than he had in others. To think, they'd once wanted to rip each others throats out. “You can't be in here,” he told Logan. “They'll figure out the lie, and I've committed... I'm earning Mayfield's trust, but the only way...” He stopped, studied Logan for long, unreadable moments. “How big are the shafts?” He pointed upwards to the ceiling.

“Not uncomfortable.”

“You can move through them easily and quietly?”

Logan could see the spark of thought tunneling through Cyclops' head. “I got into your room, didn't I?”

A slick grin – one-sided and devious – lit Summers' normally stoic features. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“Sure. What do you need?” Cyclops pulled the listening device from his pocket and handed it to Logan. “What is this?”

“It's a bug.” The shorter man shrugged. 

“Shit. Mayfield bugged your room?”

“No, not Mayfield. That's SHIELD made. The whole compound is full of them.” Logan swallowed, almost terrified of the implications. “They knew about the mutant experimentation the whole time.”

Mouth unhinged in disbelief, Wolverine stood speechless, wondering how Fury and Hill had ignored this. “I'll kill'em. I'll fucking kill --”

“There's no time for that right now,” Scott soothed him. “I need you to sneak this into Myard's uniform. Plant this in the pocket of his uniform.”

Like a ninja, Wolverine sneaked back into the ventilator shafts running throughout the building. Scott had given him the location of Myard's quarters, but it still took Logan a while to find it. He stared down into the darkened chamber, listening for speech or snores, some way to tell if the murderous man was asleep or not. Eventually, he heard movement from the bed, and a dream-filled sigh and intelligible words. 

Down from the shaft, he lowered himself, looked around for some way to muffle his fall. He found a chair nearby, and used his feet to scrape it across the floor, then quickly escaped back into the vent. Myard woke and turned on the light. Half-asleep, he scratched his head and yawned. He blamed it on rats, the dead bodies in the mines, how they hadn't been properly buried, turned out the light and returned to bed. 

Above, the feral mutant waited. Ten minutes, twenty, an hour, two hours. When he finally felt it safe to descend again, he lowered himself onto the cushion of the chair, successfully evading any sound. He rifled through the man's clothing, and placed the bug in his jacket pocket.

Back above Scott's room, he watched as his partner sat on the bed with head in hands. He was hanging on by a thread, and Logan felt his own pang of guilt rise up in his throat. So much death. And, he knew he was the cause. He'd fallen into Roth's mutant ability, trapped by her drunken answer to his very own question. Fallen prey to his inability to control himself when it came to Scott Summers. 

And, he knew, without a doubt, that Scott was going to break over this.


	9. The Long Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darkness surrounds his lover, and Logan isn't sure what to do.

He could see Summers as he traversed down the hallway, grabbing up several wires and cameras, holding them in a clamped shut fist that proved not just his determination, but a well thought out plan that he was finally bringing into play. Wolverine crawled silently, rounding every corner that his lover did, glancing out of the vents to the grounds outside to check the guards' positions. This would be a momentous day for them – he had to make sure they weren't going to spoil Cyclops' immaculate design.

His partner in all things but name had slept fitfully the night before. Waking up multiple times to the silent pangs of nightmares. Logan had felt helpless, fearing to comfort the man, and stayed in the vents. He couldn't take the chance of throwing Scott off guard again – not with his presence here. He vowed to simply watch over the younger mutant, to protect him if bad came to worse. He had to cement his faith in his lover, to prove to Summers that he could follow orders.

Above the fray, Wolverine watched as the techs and soldiers filed into the chemical showers – their preferred meeting place. He could only recognize three of them – Summers, Myard, and Mayfield. The rest were a mystery, but they patted the younger mutant on the shoulder, addressed him as Rick or Mr. Smith. None seemed to notice the wires in his hand, nor had they yet drawn out that this dark visage was a mirage.

Wolverine silently climbed to the vent over the meeting room. Myard clenched his fists, pounded them against the table when Scott sat down, his growl echoing in the room. Not a soul moved, save for Mayfield who snapped his fingers to get the other man to calm. He went to speak, but before he could begin, Cyclops put his fist full of taps onto the table and stared directly at Trenton. “Who are you working for?” he asked, calmly, his voice exuding no emotion.

Stunned, blue eyes widened before turning into tiny slits of anger. “You're accusing me --”

“No, not accusing. Proving. Who are you working for?”

Mayfield silenced the room with a simple clearing of his throat and his deft green eyes giving an angry stare down to both Smith and Myard. Slowly, mesmerized, he picked up the taps and twined them in between his fingers. Logan could see the man's jaw clench tight, and hear his breath become heavy. Twisting his head to look at Summers, “Where did you find these?”

“They're all over. Even in here. I discovered them this morning.”

“Show me.”

Summers had already cased the room some days ago, finding where the bugs and the newly planted cameras were. However, he did not directly go for them. Instead, he took his time, playing out the search until his fingers graced one. He held it up and brought it to Mayfield, laying it in his hand. “Hard to tell how many more there are. Your boy here has done an incredible job of setting them up.”

“Fuck you, asshole!” Myard was on his feet and over the table before Logan could even take a breath. Immediately ready to break his cover and leave his spot in the ceiling, Mayfield called his Lieutenant down. The younger man reigned himself in, returning to his seat, though more provocation would surely see him trying to murder Cyclops.

Logan studied the younger mutant carefully. Even in the skin of Rick Smith, he held that same stoicism, that steeled jaw, that look that gave nothing away. While the dark lenses covering his eyes did help with that illusion, it had still become effortless for the Captain Commander to portray nothing. Not even the grief and horror that oozed beneath the surface of his thoughts.

Green eyes studied the Lieutenant for long, fuming moments. Too many thoughts coursed through his mind – the rage, the paranoia, the slaves, and now the bugs. Myard was barely keeping his cool, but still, he'd worked with the man for years. Trusted him. Relied on him. “I need more proof,” he finally whispered, at his wit's end about what to do.

“Search his room,” Scott spoke after allowing a silence. “Search his person.” 

Trenton jumped the table then, ignoring the Commander's shouts for calm. Logan popped his claws, ready to intervene, but then he realized, this is exactly what Cyclops wanted. Cyke dodged and kicked his way into the corner of the room where the Lieutenant held him stasis by the neck. But the guards were right behind them. It took ten guards to wrestle Myard to the floor, push his face into the steel, and tie his hands behind his back. “You fucker,” the man cursed. “You fucking bastard. I will kill you. I will fucking kill you.” Completely bound by hands, arms and feet, he was hoisted into a chair, still raving about his revenge on Smith.

“Search his room,” Mayfield said quietly, waiting in silence as the guards walked off. “Search his person,” he told the techs.

“What are you doing?” Trenton trembled, his eyes wide open, fearful.

“If you were innocent, you would condone the search without worry.” Trust broken with the man, he twirled his finger and turned his back, ignoring the soft calls of his right-hand man as they begged and pleaded for the Commander to let him go. 

“I'm loyal to you,” Trenton said. “I've always been loyal to you. I've spent years doing your dirty work, never asking for a--”

“Sir.” Eldridge turned to see a listening device in the tech's hand. 

“That's not me. I didn't do this. It was him,” Myard yelled, indicating Smith with the rageful banging of his head. “It was him! He's fucking setting me up! Don't you see it! He's trying to destroy us!”

The Commander took the plant and returned to his seat, years of pride and planning washing away in an instant. There was no anger in the red-headed man, just the weight of the world and a significant loss to his campaign to overcome it. With a heavy breath, he laid the tap on the table with others, and ordered the rest of the room to search the compound for anymore. Summers left with them as well.

Logan's heart went with his lover, but his mind stayed focused on the conversation below. Mayfield spoke in measured words, explaining the list of things throughout the years that he didn't realize were suspect. From disobeying orders and killing key technicians, to his silence when others were accused of betrayal. He'd once pulled the skin off of one of their mutant patients – skin that was needed for a very crucial experiment on the serum. “That one act set us back weeks,” the Commander explained quietly. He continued to list the errors of Myard's past. It went on and on, until finally he came to a stop. “What do you have to say for yourself, Trenton?”

“I didn't do this sir,” he replied, utterly defeated. “It wasn't me. Those taps. I didn't --”

“Who are you working for?”

“He's setting me up! You know me! You know--”

“Who are you working for?”

Tears. So frustrated, so angry, so confused, the blonde haired Lieutenant couldn't stop the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I didn't do this,” he said again, almost under his breath. “Please. You have to believe me. I didn't do this.”

Eldridge left the room, soon to be replaced by a dozen guards. They wrenched a terrified Myard out of his chair, dragging him across the floor, retaliating against his screams with abuse. Kicks and punches, breaking the man's teeth, his collar bone. Wolverine scrambled through the pipes watching as the crowd gathered around him. Mayfield stood at the intersection in the halls, the Lieutenant at his feet. When Cyclops finally arrived, bugs in hand, the Commander finally spoke. “We have a traitor in our midst. If you will join me outside.”

Shocked, Logan quickly crawled to the out-facing vent looking out over the desert. Guards and soldiers and techs surrounded Mayfield and Myard in a wide-berth circle. A cheer began to erupt from the crowd – “Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.” He could barely see Scott midst so many people, the long black coat, that face so unlike his lover's. He faced away from Logan, staring into the ruckus.

From that distance, Logan couldn't hear the actual words spoken, just that Mayfield was making a speech and that Myard was begging. The roar of the crowd lit the empty dunes, and the Commander raised his hand into the air – a flourished sweep. And then, the sound of a gun echoed across the sand, slammed against the metallic building, filling Logan with deep, dark horror.

The crowd left, journeyed back inside, Mayfield intermixed into the swarm. Alone, staring at the bloody body was Scott. He stood there for a half an hour before returning to the base. His pace slow, he kept his focus on the ground and returned to the meeting room.

Logan scurried across the metal inlets, once again focusing his attention over the showers and chemical cleansing. Summers sat at the right hand of Mayfield, seemingly enjoying his sudden promotion. The left hand remained empty, a spot yet to be filled. 

The talk was simple – the weapons, the serum. So many things that made Logan's head spin midst the realization that Myard was killed for this. The slaves could be replaced. Already, with Summers help, his recommendations, there was a chance to replenish those who were loss. The homeless in Queens, Manhattan, the Bronx. He knew many places where the people would feel rescued so long as they had a good meal and a blanket. They would come willingly, and they would never leave no matter how hard the work was. There were many places that they could recruit from, but one problem still remained. “He wasn't working alone,” Smith said. The scope of the taps was far too large for one person to handle alone. Myard's betrayal would have been noticed much earlier if he were working by himself. “It's not safe to continue the operations until we find his accomplices.”

The meeting stalled at those words, eyes darting back and forth, suspicious and threatening. They took measure of each other, wary of downcast eyes or slightly worried lips. Another mole, someone hiding among them that could wipe them out. Mayfield sat back in his chair, hands formed into a steeple. “How many more?” he finally asked, breaking the overwhelming tension.

“I don't know,” Summers shrugged. “But it would be foolish not to find out.”

The meeting was dismissed, with Cyclops staying behind to discuss matters with the Commander. The fury inside Logan's chest began to boil. Thoughts of how Cyke had gone too far, how he'd been set up, how his lover could justify even more murder to force his plans to go smoothly. He wanted to punch something, to wreak havoc, to clear his eyes of the hot, angry tears that blurred his vision. He couldn't look at Scott anymore, not without wanting to slice him in two.

He slowly made his way back through the vent overlooking Cyclops' room. Cold, empty, much like what he feared how Scott's heart was now. He'd seen this once before, on Utopia. Though the Captain Commander swore it wasn't true, Logan could see the torture in his eyes, and the slow shutting down of his emotions. Sure, it took that distance to allow him to lead – something he'd always said when it came to the X-men – but watching the man drown in the decisions he couldn't avoid was something that Logan, himself, couldn't cope with.

He laid down by the vent above Scott's room, laying his head on the cool metal, the anger still seething, but the animal calming by the steel touch. His thoughts reeled back to Utopia, the heartbreaking divide between them, a hatred that Logan had never felt so intensely before. It took him until his death – flooded over by adamantium – to realize that it wasn't hatred, but deep, deep, soul-bonding love.

He mourned for Scott when he returned from the grave. Went to Genosha and shed tears by that stone marker – an unremarkable thing that never spoke truly of the overwhelming world that was always on Cyclops' shoulders. Logan didn't want to lose him to that fury again.

Hours later, some time after Wolverine had barely come to wakefulness, he heard Summers enter the room. Quietly, he shut and locked the door, began to toil with those things in his bag. Logan could identify very few of them – namely the braids of hair that Scott had taken from the mutants he had killed – and several more wire taps which he held up to the light. The older mutant eased his breathing, knelt suspiciously over the vent as he watched Scott dissect the plants, separating chips from wires. 

As he laid the pieces out carefully on the bed, Wolverine could no longer stand it. He jumped from the vent, causing Scott to quickly rise from his position, hand on glasses, but before he could shoot, Logan threw an adamantium punch that pushed Scott back to the floor. Mouth bloodied, the taller man tried to speak, but the feral mutant's kick rolled him onto his side, the protective glasses reeling across the floor. “Did you know?” Wolverine raged, grabbing the stunned and beaten Cyclops by the collar. Two claws extended, one to each side of Scott's neck, the third dangerously close to jugular vein. He shook his lover violently. “Did you know?”

His voice as subdued as his body, a blinded Cyclops found the center of Logan's voice. “Did I know what?”

“You knew they were going to kill him, didn't you? You knew what you were putting me up to. Tell me!”

Summers' body didn't stiffen with the accusation. Instead, it only relaxed even further, held up only by the strength of Wolverine and the claws on either side of his neck. Small trickles of blood began to stream rivulets down the adamantium protrusions from where they made contact with jawline. “I didn't know.”

“You fucking had me plant that shit on him!” Wolverine seethed, slamming Cyclops against the wall with his free hand. “You made me murder him!”

Scott took a deep breath. “I didn't know they'd kill him, Logan. But, I'm not displeased that he's dead.”

Logan hit him once again and again, using the younger mutant's face and chest like a punching bag, until he finally realized that his boyfriend wasn't fighting back. He'd seen this before – in a prison cell after the taller man had killed Xavier. Overwhelmed by grief, Scott had wanted a way out, and death was the only path he could see to take. 

Cyclops drooped against the wall when Wolverine finally let him free. He waited several minutes for the ringing in his ears to clear before sitting up, wiping the blood with the back of his hand, and searching for his glasses. Saying nothing, he returned to the bed and worked on the taps. It was only then that Logan realized the deception in his lover's honesty. No, he wasn't displeased that Myard died. Yes, it allowed him to crawl deeper into his cover. But, Scott also knew that he was responsible for it, and with that came the immense weight of guild shrouded over his already heavy shoulders. 

This mission was ruining him.

“Slim, we need to get help.”

“I'm not risking Abbie.”

“But, you'll risk yourself?”

More shame, more stubbornness. Scott was as strong-willed as ever, and nothing Logan said was going to talk him out of it. All he could do, was hopelessly follow along behind him and hope the man came out with even a shard of his former self.

“What are you doing?” he asked, watching as the collection of microchips piled up on the bed. They were tiny things – no bigger than a child's fingernail – and thus far he'd collected five.

“I need a radio.”

“You're going to call the X-men?”

“No. This is for the end.” The words came out dark, shadowed like a fog. But, Logan couldn't tell why they seemed so ominous. He studied Scott for far longer, the persistence, the coldness. In too many ways, he dreaded this part of the Captain Commander, even if he understood it.

“I want to stay,” Wolverine finally said.

“You can't.”

“Slim, you need--”

“I need to finish what I started.” The words were final, and with them, Wolverine returned to the vent above Scott's room, watching the man as he worked.


	10. Traps and Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will Scott sacrifice to save Abbie?

Mayfield proved hesitant. Alone in the room with Rick Smith – his now closest advisor – he listened patiently to the man, but still held doubts as to the reach of Myard's deceit. “We have to find out who he was working for and how many he was working with,” Summers spoke. “If we don't, your entire mission is in peril. Not just killing the mutants, but also bringing order to the world.”

Logan could see the gentle shift in the Commander's demeanor – the fear of losing his enterprise, the hard work. He sat back in his chair, tapping fingers on the table. They were alone in the room – no guards, no techs, no soldiers. Wolverine wondered if Scott had intended this, or if it was Mayfield's idea. Either way, it gave the mutant an incredible chance to worm his way into the leader's mind and warp his view.

Perhaps it was Emma who taught him such manipulations, or maybe Xavier. Sinister. Magneto. He couldn't imagine the Boy Scout – that steadfast man – doing this a decade ago.

The boy he'd first met held a black and white attitude. It was right or it was wrong. There were no grays, no navy's or yellows. Logan had loathed the man and his unwithering beliefs, but at the same time, he respected him. For too long, the Wolverine had led a lonesome life, traveling to the ends of the earth to figure out who he was, who he was supposed to be. In the end, his search had led to nothing more than emptiness and a feral need to survive at all costs. 

When Xavier had recruited him, he was ready to escape, not used to being bossed around, unaccustomed to being held accountable for his actions, but for some reason he stayed. Family, he thought to himself. He stayed because he wanted a family.

He continued to fight because of his growing admiration for the young leader and then eventually, the strong willed Storm. He'd loved her as well, though only later when things had broken between himself and Summers. And though he felt safe with her, his soul remained with Scott.

It took several hours before Cyclops had prodded Mayfield's weaknesses enough that the Commander allowed for an inquisition of the men and women stationed at the base. Yet, Scott could not yet convince him that the others were needed as well. Wolverine's mind filled with uncertain dread as he remembered the death of Myard and how easy it was for Scott to let it happen. 

There were other hitches as well. Abbie, for one, and perhaps the biggest reason that Eldridge was holding out. She'd never talked about a mutiny within the ranks. And though Summers had done his best to cast the woman's words in a dubious light, Mayfield still clung to them. And, there was also SHIELD and their involvement. They had their own spies within the organization, and their purpose was still unknown to Wolverine.

“What will you do with the traitors?” Cyke asked.

“ _If_ there are any more traitors,” Eldridge quickly pointed out. He took a deep breath, ran his thick fingers through red hair and then his just scruffy beard. “Kill them.”

“Wouldn't it be better to put them in the mines? You are lacking workers, if you haven't noticed.”  
Green eyes widened at the thought. It was an idea that he found tempting, but he was not convinced it was the correct action. There were so many things that the traitors could be used for – bait, for one, testing tools. “Testing the weapons would be far easier if you had actual subjects to test them on,” Smith edged on. The idea of a terrible death proved to be Mayfield's main goal, so Cyclops needed to provide him with that gristly end. “All you have to do is call the others in. I'll take care of the rest.”

The Commander, however, wasn't so sure that he trusted the stranger to make all of the decisions about his army, and eloquently expressed his doubts as such. “Maybe Myard was right,” he continued. “Maybe you are trying to take down this operation.”

If Summers was stung the comment, he didn't show it. Rather, a bone-chilling smile crossed his face, and then a laugh that seemed both deadly and rasped. Logan watched as Scott tilted his head onto one balled up fist and with the other hand, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. “Tell me now,” he said, his voice so devoid of anything that resembled the man he loved. Wolverine shuddered. “Why would you think that?”

Eldridge swallowed hard, attempting to keep his composure while leaning back in his chair to place distance between himself and Smith. Try as he might, the red-head couldn't keep his quivering breath under control or his hands from shaking. After all, the memories of that horrific night when the stranger first came to them – the murders that he had committed, all with a smile on his face, the deaths of so many – shifted in his consciousness. The man was a monster – just as Myard had said – and he had let the monster in. It was the first time that Logan had seen fear in the Commander's eyes. “I-You're just here for the mutants,” he finally said. “That's all you wanted. You wanted no part of the operation--”

“But, I do now. I think I've helped you enough to deserve a piece of the pie. I found the faults in your weapons, your training, your battle plans for Krakoa. I've remade the parts for the inhibitor, discovered a traitor in your midst. Yet, you still don't trust me? That's a shame, Commander. For all of my gifts to you, I get nothing in return save for a seat that means nothing?” There was a small flick of wrist under the table. Enough of a glint that green eyes veered downward, to see the blood-stained knife in Smith's hand. “You're not a mutant lover, too, are you Commander?” Cyclops hissed.

His mind twisted into knots, Logan had to look away from the scene, and the ensuing silence made him lose his breath.

“I'm not a traitor to my kind,” the Commander finally spoke, easing the tension that coiled through Wolverine's core. “I need assurance that you're not trying to destroy this mission. I need something tangible that cements your dedication to my goals.”

“How about a working inhibitor?” Silent, Mayfield considered the proposition. Cyclops continued. “You call your soldiers up here so we can interrogate them, and I finish the inhibitor that I've been working on. That should be enough.”

Logan could here the Commander's heartbeat in his chest, could see green eyes once again tilt downward to the blade. “Of course,” he finally managed, and Scott smiled at having won him over. 

“I'll finish it by this evening, then. I expect to see the troops here soon. I want to meet them so badly.”

Logan didn't follow Scott's footprints down the hall at first. He stayed above the meeting room watching Mayfield as he slowly began to breathe again. The man was frightened, but not as disoriented now that he'd had a chance to calm himself. “Sella,” he called for one of the guards. 

Dark curly hair, and thick-waisted, Sella entered with a gun in her hand, ready for action. “I want you to watch him carefully,” he told her. “I want his every move cataloged, and report back to me and me alone.

Logan recognized her – a body midst the crowds – always being one of the first guards to enter the room when the soldiers were called for. Only now, he had a name. As she walked slowly down the hall, Wolverine followed her, noting her scent, the way she walked. She was well-trained. Near silent, even with her clunky uniform on. Her thick build gave way to a highly toned musculature underneath the skin-tight Kevlar. Her focus weaved to the right and left, always on the look out for enemies and attackers. She would be a foe that Cyclops would have to deal with immediately. 

He didn't hear a sound when she entered the lab, even with his heightened hearing. There were no footfalls, no sway of her hips, but Cyclops noticed her anyway. The man always did have an uncanny knack for knowing where the enemy was. Silence as she took two steps closer, her eyes scouring the parts of the machine before her on the thick metal table.

Scott let the quiet settle in, make her nervous. He knew that she was no ally, but there was something different about her than the others. It was in the way she stood – her back not as straight, her breathing a little too calm. The others – especially under the influence of the serum – were unabashed soldiers, with all the trappings of military procedure and training. She was different, though, and he had to know why.

Eventually the Captain Commander spoke. “It runs on a sonic frequency unheard by the human ear.” The explanation drew her in two steps further. Above them, Wolverine could now smell Sella's body, which smelled of soap and nothing more. She smelled like Scott to used to smell before he became Rick Smith, before being clean didn't fit into his character. Before he pretended to relish the blood stains underneath his fingernails. Once again, Logan was shaken by how much his lover had changed. He was still precise, strategic, but the rest of him was unrecognizable. He wondered if _Cyclops_ could actually come back from this.

“You do know how Sentinel tech works, right?” 

“No,” Sella said, her voice as measured as her expression. Another step, and she peered over Summers' shoulder, her breath silent, but her eyes staring intently at the man speaking to her.

“Sound waves,” he continued. “The vibrational frequencies of sound can halt electrons in their paths, shatter cells, corrupt matter. They can destroy rocks. They can destroy a human brain.” Smith showed no emotion as he spoke – just a crystal clear scientific analysis. No poetry, no desire, no feigned darkness – a simple void in the place of where that man used to be. “For humans, the frequency to gain their obedience is quite low. Anyone under the age of sixty five can hear it, but all must submit. To act out against it would mean risking ear drums and eyes, brains, muscular stability. The longer the sound exists, the quicker the humans are pushed to the ground.”

Another step for Sella. Logan listened hard to those two cool heartbeats. There was no aberration in either of them. “In mutants, the frequency is much higher, so much so that neither species can hear it. But, in mutants, it doesn't effect their brains and organs, it effects their very cells. It cancels out their mutation and forces them into a life without their cursed powers. It makes them vulnerable, and that is how we kill them.”

Sella perked a brow at the word kill – a disbelieving, slightly worried expression – and for a moment she glanced away. Cyclops surely noticed it, as he did most things, but Logan knew the look that followed, and he realized how much danger his lover was actually in. There was no way to alert him, no way to exit the vents and tell him what he'd discovered as he watched over the meeting. That look on Sella's face – he'd seen it only before – on Maria Hill's face when she was ready to put down her enemy. The woman here – that dark beauty below – was the traitor. She worked for SHIELD, and she had now set her sights on Scott.

“Mayfield will want to test it,” she pointed out. She knew that she wasn't supposed to speak – that was no part of her mission, either from Mayfield or Hill – but she couldn't suppress her curiosity over the murderous man in front of her.

“And he shall,” Smith happily sighed. A full-on stare pushed the woman a step backwards. “There are mutants in the desert. They supply weapons to paramilitary regimes and mercenaries, much like Stark used to do before he unfortunately gained a conscience. I doubt it will be hard to catch them considering the strength housed within the compound.”

While most people would think he was talking too much, giving too much away, Logan knew better. He was giving just enough interest to calculate Sella's character and her loyalty to the cause. Whether or not he had discovered she was SHIELD or not, Wolverine was unsure, but the man had certainly realized that there was something off about her.

He was clever like that – always had been. A million plans working overtime in the back of his head, while at the same time focusing on the present. It was a skill that Logan, himself, could never master. One task and the quantum need to keep the blood down in his stomach instead of whirling up into his chest. A primal instinct to protect, to kill those who would maim and kill his pack, his family, those he cared about. If it weren't for Cyke and his constant break-through commands, calling him back to a blue-sky-reality, there would be a lot fewer people in the world. There were days when he regretted both of those things – death and life. Days when he hated Scott for taking that choice away from him, and other days when he thanked beer that he'd chosen to follow the man into battle.

It was evening before Mayfield entered. Wolverine's bones whined with his scrunched posture and lack of movement. He could feel the blood clots in his legs, his heart. All beaten by a healing factor, but painful nonetheless. The one that dislodged and hit his brain was the worst, causing him to temporarily lose his focus, and if it weren't for Summers' soft baritone explaining the inner workings of the sound module meant to stop the mutant gene, he would have lost it entirely. 

Mayfield listened for some time to Sella's questions, to Cyclops' answers before he stepped forward and relieved the ebony skinned woman for dinner in the galley. Like Scott's guardian, the Commander watched intently as the man fastened the machine together, carefully soldering microchip after microchip, welding together the silver coated parts. Even to Logan the whole ordeal was fascinating, even through the excruciating pain. 

Logan twitched in that moment – another spur of blood to the brain that skimmed his bones across the metallic venting. Mortified, he looked through the slats, his breath held to see those horrible green eyes staring up at the casing. Scott managed a glance over his shoulder at the Commander, but continued with his work.

The gunshot caught the younger mutant by surprise – felled him to the floor, hands on glasses ready to strike. Keeping his wits, he sought Mayfield, and the gun aimed at the vent above. A small trickle of blood dripped from the hole, hitting the floor with a silent splash. A snarl, and a step forward, Mayfield looked into the slats, his eyes squinted and focused. Summers stood on shaky legs, watching as the last of the blood came down from the vents. The silence consumed him.

“Stupid rats,” the Commander finally hissed, turning his attention back to Cyclops. “If you could finish this in one night,” he wheedled, trying to gain more insight on the stranger before him, “then why didn't you finish it earlier?”

Logan finally breathed now that Mayfield's attention was elsewhere. Trapped inside his flesh, the bullet was lodged at a perfect angle underneath his shoulder, making it painful to move. He could feel it as the muscles and tendons wrapped themselves around the hollow shelled beast, pushing it even further into nerves and adamantium coated bones. The bullet would make moving silently in the vents more difficult.

Down below, he listened as Scott explained his dallying on the inhibitor. He'd gone over the weapon plans, improving them, reexplaining the need to keep the soldiers at a distance from the core of the explosions and blasts and beams. These new designs would not only allow Eldridge to keep his army, but to gain more soldiers as a result. “No one wants to join a regime where everyone dies to prove their loyalty.”

Doubts in Rick Smith slowly began to unravel as Cyclops talked the Commander through the various blue prints that he had reconfigured. Though he had explained the faults in the weapons already, now he was providing a solution, and Logan quickly realized the genius of it. Not only was he delaying the mission further, but he was also learning about the osmium and how it would interact with these devastating weapons. A genius plan, to be sure. 

Eventually, silent Sella returned to her post, bringing a plate of food for Summers, and Mayfield disappeared. He worked well into the night, finishing the inhibitor, and leaving it on the lab table. “Inform the Commander that he'll have to retrieve our test subjects. I want him to be assured that it works.” His guard nodded watching carefully as Cyclops packed his tools into a neatly organized box and left the lab. On his way, he made sure to talk to several soldiers and techs, pointing out that Sella was still in the lab.

Logan inched back to to Cyke's room, very aware of the stuck bullet. It took him too long, and he feared what could have happened in that time. Mayfield, SHIELD, all of it could crash down so easily. He assured himself that Scott was smart, wily. That few could match his wits on the battlefield. Of all of the leaders that he had served under, his lover was by far the most thorough.

He couldn't remember now when he knew he loved the man. In a way, it felt like it was always there – an attachment to his soul that grew and grew until it became a painful knot in his chest that threatened to explode. It was hard. To hold it in. To watch him go from Jean to Emma. The desperation he felt was suffocating. Lying at wake at night, his eyes on the ceiling, the sound of the ocean outside of his window. Utopia had been cold for him. A void, an empty place for him as he watched Cyclops and the White Queen reign over the island, trying to keep the mutants safe. 

He could remember the loss so clearly, though. Reviving to a world without Scott Summers. The hole it created, he filled with violence and lust and all things that his leader would have scoffed at. He became the animal again, lurking in the shadows, watching as the world kept growing dimmer. When Blindfold revealed that he'd come back from the dead, when he heard that name cross her lips, a part of him nearly fell to pieces. There was a chance. He wasn't going to waste it this time.

As he moved through the shafts, a snail's pace thanks to the throbbing pain in his shoulder, he remembered the look on Scott's face when he moved the chestnut hair from visor, stroked that high cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. The catch in his breath, it stole Logan's attention, staring down to the dip of Adam's apple. The man was silent, his eyes unknown, his thoughts a mystery. Wolverine scuffed hand over the many bandages he'd placed upon that sunless skin, milk-white dusted with scarce freckles like light-dimmed stars on the horizon of a city. He waited for the younger mutant to wince, to blast his beams, to make any move that told him to back away. But, Scott sat breathless, brow smooth, his head tilted up just slightly.

Scott tasted of life. His lips, his tongue, his teeth. His body was warm, heating up, and his heart pounding as if years worth of bombs were going off all at once inside his chest. Things went faster then, with Logan pulling off the man's clothes, taking him to the sofa, laying him down. His tongue trailed neck and collar bone. Hard, deviant kisses that spoke of unsavory thoughts, pressed against pulses and chest. He sucked at rosy buds, his hand skimming across the perfectly chiseled abdomen, those ripples of muscles that heaved with want. The scent was intoxicating, taking Logan from the dirty room beneath a bar to a place of green grass and the fair scent of poppies and sunflowers. Thick oak trees burdening the view of the horizon. Beautiful things. Things he'd forgotten about.

Scott pulled at his hair, his voice a musical lyric that went on forever, echoing in Wolverine's mind. A song he was so desperate to hear. Oh, how he'd longed for this. 

There was no slowing down. It was quick, but pushed too far into the edge of their need to stop, to think about what it all meant. Logan wasn't gentle. So ravenous he was for his lover's body, his whims, his love. The animal inside of him pushed against his mind, and Scott's call was so rapturous that there was no reason to pull back, to heed the warnings in his mind that this was going to break apart. That he was going to hurt again. That this would kill him.

They rose to their climaxes at the same time, both stretching their sweaty bodies, reveling in the exhausting pleasure that coursed through their nerves, binding them together once and for all.

They fell into sleep shortly after, their bodies entangled as they both attempted to keep still on the dust blue sofa. Scott's breath in his ear, his long legs bunched up with his feet hitting the arm rest. And himself, his arms wrapped around his desire, the one thing that he'd always wanted, and the one thing that he could never have. It was the first peaceful sleep he'd had in years.

Before Logan ran the intersection, one leading to Cyclops' room in the distance - a place where the vents didn't peak down onto the guard-spun floors, and curled up inside the sheathing - he brandished his claws and cut the bullet out of his arm, holding his breath through the wincing pain, and sopping up the blood with what was left of his uniform. A mud-brown sheen streaked across the dull metal, a mixture of grave and life, torture and worry. He waited for the wound to heal before moving forward.

Wary, Logan could see Sella finally making her way to Scott's door, gun in hand, her face unemotional. Inside the room, Scott sat on the bed, once again glancing over the braids that he had collected. It was a stark moment, one that Logan felt was deserved and undeserved at the same time. The guilt, the crushing weight of shame. It could have all been avoided had he just put together a team. 

But, then there was Abbie to think about, and the danger she posed to the entire world if revealed. To murder those dozen mutants, to stand by at the death of Myard – comparing that to the millions of lives that Scott had saved, the price was immutable. Logan doubted that many among them on Krakoa could make such decisions, and though Cyclops made them look like easy, common sense conclusions, Wolverine knew that they weren't. 

Scott was already haunted by his actions, standing on a razor's edge, the blade already cutting him in half.

A slight scratch from the vents above alerted Summers to Wolverine's presence. Quickly – and with shame – he packed the braids away, checking the door for Sella's movements before scrawling out a note on crumpled paper. He couldn't risk Logan coming into the room, not now, not with the listening devices and cameras planted once again. 

'Don't come down,' the note read. 'Destroy the inhibitor.' The writing was hasty, not his normally neat, tight, small print. Then a third line: 'Sella's SHIELD.' Logan breathed a sigh of relief. He should have known better than to worry. Cyclops had a way of knowing things that most wouldn't pick up on. Perhaps it was the red visor that made him more observant, the lack of color variant leading him to pick up on gestures and body tics. Slight facial movements, the way a body was held. Or, it could have been his battle-wary mind always pumping information at light speed through his brain. Either way, Logan was glad that his boyfriend had figured it out.

Scott – holding another piece of paper in his hand – dusted at the vent, and through the slats, Logan could see him mouth the word 'Sorry' before jumping down from the chair and opening his door. “There's a rat in the vents. It's prohibiting my rest,” he told his guard. Sella rolled her dark eyes and listened to the slight scratching. The gunshot was expected, as was the small trickle of blood, and once again, Wolverine winced in pain as the bullet slammed into the metal on his chest. He leaned quickly to avoid the massive drain leaking through the hole, and let himself heal. 

“Satisfied?” she asked, completely annoyed at the man. Smith nodded with a half-sided grin that made her uneasy. 

“Very much so.” She stood in the doorway, watching quietly as he pulled up the covers. “Turn the lights out when you're done,” he creaked, turning away from her. Brown eyes scanned at the cameras, her suspicion obvious.

Logan clawed the bullet from his chest, glaring down at Sella for long moments, feeling the anger well up in him. She was SHIELD. She knew what was happening here – the experiments, the slaves. All of those killed and thrown out into the desert, all of those mangled and murdered by Cyclops in hopes of resurrecting them on Krakoa. She knew, and she did nothing. 

Abbie would have been safe had Hill and her ilk responded in a humane fashion. They had the weapons, the know-how, the numbers to push forward and break this world-ending coup apart at the seams, but instead, they allowed it to go on. They could have saved Scott from the voiceless nightmares that fluttered across his sculpted features. They could have saved so many.

Logan waited until Sella settled into half-dazed guarding position before traveling back to the lab. There were no new cameras here, just listening devices, which meant that SHIELD heard everything Scott had revealed earlier. He wondered how they would use the information. They already had Sentinel tech, but there were details that perhaps they had missed. 

He took his time to stretch, shaking out all of those cramped up muscles, letting the clots free, glad when the pain was swallowed up by his healing factor. Grateful for Summers' incessant need for warm-ups before a Danger Room session, he touched his toes, bent his arms, and cracked his spine before setting sights on the inhibitor. Why Cyke wanted it destroyed, Logan wasn't sure – especially since the act could essentially blow his cover, but it was an order, and he'd learned, long ago, to take those orders with minimal questioning.

The inhibitor met his claws, his fists, the soles of his boots with a fury that he hadn't realized he was keeping in. In pieces on the floor, he stared at the machine, a blood lust still fogging his brain, his breath heavy. He could slice through every guard here, free Cyclops from this never ending cycle of intrigue and death. Go back to Krakoa. Go back to the secret groves. They could be together. Again.

Settled, and sad, he reluctantly returned to the vents, his climb soundless, and returned to that small area above Scott's room. The Captain Commander of the Krakoan forces did not sleep that night. Hunched over the small table in the corner of the room, mapping out some plan for the demise of this regime, sorting out his too-many thoughts. Scott spent most of his waking hours like this, and it broke Wolverine's heart to see it each and every time.

Wolverine didn't know when he fell asleep, but the ruckus in the hallway immediately jerked him awake. He followed the din to the chemical showers, the majority of soldiers and guards waiting out in the hallway. On the table, the crushed inhibitor – in all of its parts and pieces – glistened like a maddening scheme. Logan cringed, inwardly knowing that he'd just Sella up for death.

He watched the drama play out – the guards pointing fingers, Summers' sly smile. Then, one of the night guards spoke, “Sella was the last one in the lab.” Another guard reiterated the words, and then another, another. 

The woman jumped at the accusations, made a plea for her innocence, but to no avail. Tied up in the chair, just as he had done to Myard, Eldridge had the soldiers and guards search the compound, and within the hour, handfuls of plants and cameras were discovered. From public areas to private quarters, Sella had stretched her hand too far. “Who are you working for?” the Commander asked.

Though she remained calm on the surface, her heartbeat pulsed wild. Dark eyes stared up at the lingering Mayfield, carefully tracing every cat-like move the heavier man made. He walked in a circle around her, his footsteps light, the growing anger inside his chest riling up his lips into a cracked snarl. “Who are you working for?” he growled.

Scott stood at the end of the meeting table and watched as the events unfolded. Face shielded by those ever present dark glasses, Logan couldn't see the thoughts flickering through his mind. He wondered if Summers was shamed, guilty, if he intended to go through this a second time. Logan hoped he had a plan, some way to avert Sella's murder because if the younger mutant didn't, he was sure that SHIELD would rain down upon Krakoa like thunder and ice. They would obliterate the young nation all in the name of national security and any other bogus charges they would come up with.

The guards grabbed her by the arms, ready to march her through the halls to her death, but a single hand raised in the air stopped them. Mayfield eyed the stranger curiously. “You're so quick to kill everything,” Summers quieted. “You've got a prison, after all, and trained interrogators.”

“She's a traitor,” the Commander steamed, yanking hard at the spy's hair. “She deserves --”

“But, what about what you deserve? Don't you want to know who has infiltrated your organization? Don't you want to know their purpose? How many have turned against you? If they're going to take everything from you?”

Sella took a breath, her eyes darting back and forth between Rick Smith and Eldridge Mayfield. Logan could smell the fight or flight decisions that thrummed inside her jangled nerves. She could unleash herself from the chains, die kicking and screaming at the hands of the soldiers that would tear her to shreds, or she could go peacefully to a dungeon and wait for SHIELD to realize her operation was discovered. With slumped shoulders, she chose the latter, knowing that the information she had gained during her tenure here was by far more important than an easy out. “I won't tell you anything,” she said, her voice as deep and commanding as she could make it under the circumstances. That bought her a reprieve.

Smith's crooked smile stopped her breath again. “I'm sure we'll figure out something, dear. I can always make an inhibitor just for you.”

When the ruckus cleared and Sella was secured in the dungeons, Scott once again took his seat at the right hand of Mayfield. 

By nightfall, Cyclops completed a second inhibitor, and the mutants from the black market camp were brought in.


	11. The Way It Weaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With so much on the line, someone has to break.

They were held behind bars, chained up, their eyes blindfolded, their bodies bullet ridden and bruised. These were the black market mutants – those child stealers and thieves, and dirty men – whom Scott and Logan had seen when they were trying to reach the base. They were frightened now, no longer threatening the women and children that they had abducted. In a way, Cyclops felt that this was righteous justice, that their suffering amounted to karma and cosmic vengeance, but then he realized that he was no better than them.

Quickly, he forced his mind to tread back to the moment, feeling that his facade was too weak, too overtaxed to bare the thoughts of what he had done. “You captured them,” he spoke to Mayfield blandly, punctuating that he had not yet had breakfast. 

“As you asked for in our bargain.” His men brought in the inhibitor case, heavy, but not overwhelmingly so, housed in black steel, with a round speaker attached to one end that would vibrate when approached by the appropriate DNA. It was some time ago that Hank McCoy had figured out the vibrational frequency that would destroy mutant matter, that would render their powers useless. It was the same principal with DNA in general – shaking it apart by it's core, disseminating it over the body, busting eardrums and brains, letting the damage leak down into eyes and lungs and mouths. The mutants just operated at a higher frequency. 

One of the guards entered the cell, ripped the blindfold off the rabid man inside and placed a gun to his head. The cuffs were removed by another, and soon the mutant was biting and clawing and gnashing, ready to fight for his life, but he was soon pushed down by his shoulders and onto his knees. The gun placed to the top of his head gave him pause. “Use your mutant powers,” the guard bellowed, his voice echoing across the prison, the metal walls whispering back his voice and making all of the mutants' hair stand up on end. 

He spit acid – strong enough to eventually rust the bars in front of him – strong enough to melt the faces off of the guards. Why he didn't use it earlier, Scott had no idea, unless there was a limit, and a reason for him to be so guarded with his powers. Maybe he knew the reputation of Mayfield and his compound. Perhaps he had dealt with them before in their illegal maneuvers. Or, as he thought the greatest reason, was the threat to something beyond himself. A wife, a child, something that the soldiers had found out about through some nefarious means. Either way, it made him pliable and obedient. “Use your powers,” the guard commanded again, and this time, the mutant spit his green bile forward and onto the bars. The green ooze sizzled as it slimed down the iron, eroding and rusting through the exterior. Six more of these outbursts, and he would be free to go back home, or where ever he would now feel the safest.

But, he was not given the opportunity to find out. The guard flipped the switch on the machine, its humming crawling out within the cells, creating a whine that eked into bone and chilled Cyclops to his very core. He could feel the depletion of his optic blasts, the red world around him fading just a touch. He took the opportunity to once again reveal his eyes – especially the glass one. Something so unlike his former self. It kept the cover up, made for realism. 

The mutant sucked in another breath, deeper, down to his stomach deeper, and once again tried to break the bars in front of him, but once again, it didn't work. “Told you I could build it,” Summers stated with a sarcastic truth behind his words. Mayfield merely nodded. 

Cyke put his glasses back on as they moved through the cells, cutting off mutant powers, making sure that the machine was good for its intended use. Smith explained that if there were more mutants in the five mile radius all of their powers had now been blocked, and there was no more danger from them. 

Sella – her dark eyes wide – watched in fear. The monster in front of her – the one that smiled at her so deviously – was even more frightening than she had ever imagined.

Mayfield waved his hands, impressed somewhat, but nearly dismissive. “I suppose you want to do what you usually do?”

“Don't you think they'd make good test subjects for the rest of the machines?” Smith asked, once again lending battle wisdom to the Commander. Mayfield nodded. “About our bargain?”

His words were hesitant, but the Commander finally answered, “They'll be here shortly.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

Cyclops suppressed a smile and watched Mayfield leave. He turned once again to Sella. “I know who you work for,” he breathed. 

She swallowed hard, convinced that he knew the truth, even while doubt wormed through her thoughts. “I won't tell you anything,” she gasped.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Time will tell.” Cyclops laughed and left her to watch as the mutants suffered against the hold of the machine. 

The prisons were off limits to Logan, the vents not going down that far. Impatiently, he waited, listened as he could for sounds and signs of Scott's distress. At the stairs' entry, the army had gathered, each one as impatient as Wolverine, but for entirely different reasons. They needed hope. With Myard and Sella having tried to douse their dreams, with the mission they had dedicated years to in peril, they needed something to hold on to.

Hours passed, and Wolverine was out of his mind with worry, having no idea what had happened below the vents. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, and he was elated when Scott finally returned. He wanted to shout to the man, to drop down from the eaves and hug him, kiss him, feel his heart beneath his fingers. The ache, when he swallowed his need for spontaneity, was deep, and it panged within his chest.

Summers set about ordering the techs to work, demanding – under no certain terms – the casings and other parts needed to make the rest of the inhibitors. He was rushed, he told them, that this – above all else was their top priority. They wouldn't sleep, wouldn't rest unless it was under his command. 

Progress happened quickly the next few days. The inhibitors, the changes to the osmium weapons. Logan would dip down into Scott's room during the day, leave him small messages about things he'd witnessed while the man was busy. Odd things about the guards that he could use against them. The way they went off their traditional paths, private meetings in secluded rooms where they talked about their worry for the Commander and his lead. Indeed, Cyclops had done much to undermine the army's trust in Mayfield, and many were now thinking of a coup to install Rick Smith as their leader.

It was useful information, and Scott would relay those messages to Eldridge on a daily basis, leading to more interrogations, more doubt about the sanctity of his organization, and even more reliance on the mysterious stranger to help him lead their mission out of the darkness it had been placed in. The mines were slowly replenished – small infractions leading to ultimate anger from the Commander. A missed shift, a faked illness in order to rest – these were all reasons to get rid of them. Their loyalty to the cause proven false. And, then, there was the coup.

It wasn't a normal meeting. “The rest will be here tomorrow,” Mayfield revealed, green eyes angry. The room was more crowded than usual, making it warm and uncomfortable. The soldiers and techs and guards kept their eyes to the floor, refusing to look at either the Commander or Rick Smith. They feared the mines; they feared the cells; they feared the worst.

“Has Sella talked yet?” Scott had a feeling about this – days of Logan's surveillance finally eating away at the older man. The Commander's thoughts had been uneven, his sleep fitful, even his voice lacked its usual calm. Summers' plan was working. Mayfield was cracking at the seams.

“No. She's been trained to withhold information, that's quite clear.” Mayfield leaned back in his seat, a red flare crossing his cheeks, crawling up his neck. He lost track of the conversation Cyclops was trying to pull him into – talk of Sella and her origins, her work, her agency. He needed to know if he knew that SHIELD was responsible, but Eldridge was far too doused in his own thoughts to acknowledge any of it. 

All of those men and women, standing stick straight and wary - there were too many of them; too many possibilities for Eldridge to count; too many things that he may have overlooked. “Who here wants to overthrow me?” he asked, a volatile voice that made them all jump. He stood up from his chair, paced the room. “Who decided to start this coup?”

No one answered.

“I know who started it,” he revealed. “I know exactly who the leaders are. If you are honest, there is a chance that you'll survive, at least for a little while. If you aren't, then the killing will start now.” He brandished one of the prototype weapons, its intricate gears carved out of the rare metal that they'd been mining, coated in silver, a charge lighting up from the sheathe. A knife type weapon, meant for close combat. It once would have killed its user, shooting its charge in all directions, obliterating everything in a seven foot radius, but Cyclops had focused its energy into a beam much like his own optic blasts. He'd made it far more dangerous.

Still more silence.

Logan's heart beat a marathon in his chest as Mayfield walked the room, holding the weapon at his side. As the men and women looked down to the floor, the Commander's rage only grew. Yelling at the top of his lungs, he demanded that the traitors turn themselves in, and though Cyclops tried to calm him, tried to explain that these men and women could be used in the mines, that they could be test subjects, that they could be useful to the cause, Eldridge's serum-soaked blood would have none of it.

Ready to lash out on one of the conspirators with the osmium enhanced knife, Scott stepped forward and stopped him. “Don't let them off so easily,” he warned, holding the Commander in a glass-eyed gaze. “You're putting your own mission in peril. You'll only invite more resistance.”

At first, Eldridge struggled, but Cyclops was far stronger. He held the man's wrist above his head, staring him down until the seething rage finally bled from his flesh. “There now,” he eased. “Let's think about this logically. You need to man the mines. We need more osmium if weapon production is going to continue. The few weapons we have used up the supply, and even if we scrape it from the malfunctioning ones, there won't be enough to complete the cache. You need miners.”

Logan took a deep breath, amazed at the deescalation of the situation, how his lover had managed it. But then, Scott had spent years doing exactly that for him. Years of learning how to effectively tame the animal, to push it back into hiding in the depths of his blood and being. 

The smell of Sabretooth alone – that musky scent tinged with blood and spatters of Hellfire cologne, lit up with whiskey and unwashed sweat – proved to be enough to send him over the edge on too many occasions. The team feared him, what he would do once the thoughts inside his head became mired in the needs of hunting and killing and becoming the predator that his subconscious wanted so desperately to be. Freedom, all constraints undone, just to rip the villain into pieces, chew on his flesh, devour him once and for all. Scott's voice always called him back. “Stand down, Wolverine,” he would say, and the beast inside of him would listen.

Jean would then step in, making her presence known, her soft words cooing him into a lullaby of wakefulness. Slowly, he would come out of his haze, her blue eyes bright and beautiful. “Welcome back,” she would whisper, stroking his hair. The moment was intense, and it was only after she died that Wolverine realized it wasn't her tenderness that had relieved him of the predator, it was Scott's demands and expectations.

Eldridge finally relented, returning to his seat, glaring at the men and women of the coup. The ringleaders were sent to the cells, the rest stripped of their belongings and sent to the mines. “Interrogate them,” Smith told him. “They may know something about Sella's employer.”

The thought seemed to rouse Mayfield's stunted curiosity. Red brow raised and he nodded his head. “She's a tricky one,” he explained, “but, if she was working with them, then there are probably more from the other compounds. She was my inspector, you see. I trusted her with a great many things.”

Cyclops' heart dropped, though his face remained still. “Did she know about the osmium? How to use it?” 

Logan had never thought of the implications of Sella's placement. If he'd had time, if he weren't spending his every waking hour inside a vent and praying that Cyclops didn't get himself killed, perhaps he would have. Perhaps the whole mission would have made more sense, would have looked at everything with a more discerning eye. Scott had warned him about this, that time that seemed so long ago, fresh from waking up, their bodies still relaxed from their coupling.

“If we do this,” the younger mutant had said, his voice soft, fingers absently caressing Logan's thick chest hair, “We have to keep this separate from our missions.”

“Whatever you want, leader man.”

“I'm serious, Logan. I can't have you breaking protocol to come rescue me every time something looks bad. I need you as part of the team. I need you to--”

Wolverine shut him up with a kiss, one that Scott barely participated in. He could see the concern in the young mutant's features, could almost see his downcast eyes behind the red lenses. Relenting, hoping to regain the magic of the night before, “Slim, I'm not going to let you down.” He smoothed hand across bruised cheekbone, around bandaged shoulders. “Promise.”

But, he had. 

The guilt that shifted through him hit his stomach in a near-upheaval. Scott's death. That was his fault, and now his lover was left with the aftermath of his disobedience. Had he just trusted Summers for a single instance, had he not asked Abbie that blasted question, then things may have turned out differently. 

He jolted back to reality when Scott and Eldridge left the room. With a sigh, he followed along, listening to the quiet conversation. They spoke of the lab and the progress on the other inhibitors. It wouldn't take him long to finish them, not now that the techs understood the vital importance of making the parts correctly. 

“I want to talk to Sella myself,” Cyclops revealed, his glasses perched on his head midst the scraggly black hair. Salt and pepper streaked in places, disheveled, unwashed, that he'd picked such a character to portray made Logan's heart sink. “We need to find out what she knows.”

“We have our best interrogators on the job,” Mayfield explained.

“Maybe.” Scott flicked out the small blood covered knife. “But, I can be rather convincing at times, don't you think?”

It was the first time that Wolverine had heard the Commander laugh in days. “Yes, I suppose you can be.”

The cells were dark until he entered, and the serumed soldiers that Mayfield had deemed loyal flicked on the lights. The mutants shied away, hid their eyes and heads behind grimy hands, curled up into themselves trying to scramble away from the footsteps in the corridor. While Rick Smith played it as sufficing, acts to soothe the cruel soul inside of him, Scott Summers pitied the creatures, knowing exactly how that fear felt.

Winters. Jack Winters. He remembered the man clearly, the way he held Scott in telepathic check. How Scott would cower at his temper, and paid the price when he disobeyed. He understood their feelings of futility, hopelessness, and the wish for death if only to avoid the pain of surviving.

At the end of the row stood Sella, already on her feet and defiant. She showed no fear until she realized it was Smith who approached her. Instantly, she took a step back from the bars, folding her arms across her chest in an attempt to place a wall between herself and the mad stranger who had interrupted her mission. “I'm not saying anything,” she said, trying to regain her pride in front of him, but it didn't work. Her voice trembled just a touch too much, and her eyes dropped to the floor.

Scott smiled. She _would_ talk to him. “The osmium. How much do you know?”

“I'm not telling you shit,” she spat between gritted teeth. Dark brows knitted, drawing low to deep brown eyes. 

Cyclops smiled again, a quiet husk of a laugh sounded in his throat. Sella couldn't help the caught breath. “I know who you work for.”

Failing to regain her composure, she licked fear dried lips and took another step back from the bars. “So, you've said,” her voice coming out too meek to rouse a defense.

“I can kill them. Fury, Hill. The rest.”

Dark eyes went wide with sudden fear. To hear those names spoken aloud shook her soul. “Who-Who are you?”

“You can change all of that. A bargain. Their lives for information.”

“I won't reveal anything.”

Smith held up a single plant that she had placed – one he had taken from the lab. “Substandard, which I'm sure you knew. You underestimated the Commander. With a slight modification, it's incredibly easy to use it as a tracker.” He pushed his dark glasses to the top of his head showing off the full wicked grin that crossed his face. “The hellicarrier wouldn't last long against one of those missiles.” 

Sella's mind raced for defense, but her thoughts were too scurried. She was trapped. And even though she was an up and coming agent, requested for the mission by Fury himself, she had no way to get out of this.

Cyclops pressed his forehead against the bars of the cell. His voice was soft, a lullaby – much like the one he sang the night when he killed all of the mutants. The notes came out in hummed phrases, and his eyes went wild with cruelty. “One by one. One by one. I'll kill them all, one by one. Drink their blood, flay their flesh until there is nothing left.” Again and again, he repeated the lyrics, his calloused, blood caked fingers gripping the bars of the cell. At first, Sella thought his words would grow angry and fierce, but they stayed soft and controlled, allowing the melody to absorb within her thoughts and chill her blood. “You can't take them all down,” she finally whispered without any measure of control to her voice. “You kill one, and the rest will take them down.”

Another smile, a finger tapping against the bars. “Cut off the head of the snake, and the snake dies. Without Fury and Hill to lead them, SHIELD is nothing more than fancy equipment and an outdated armory.”

“You sound as if you know them well,” Sella responded, hoping to flip the tables on the discussion.

Completely aware of the twist, Summers let loose a low chuckle. “You don't study mutant haters for years without admiring a few.”

There was nothing that she could say to ease the problem. SHIELD had a long history with mutants, and not all of it pleasant. Even now, the agency lay in wait waiting for the Krakoans to make a threat against the world. Even with the Avengers and other heroes at their side, they weren't prepared for an all out war against them. There were too many of them, their powers far too diverse to compensate for. Mayfield's advanced weaponry had been their only way out.

To Rick Smith – the monster, the murderer, the crazed stranger that had sent her mission into turmoil – the agency was his ally. She wasn't prepared for this – the destruction of SHIELD, which she no doubt thought that he could manage – and made a choice. “What do you want to know?”

Smith backed away from the bars, giving her room to breathe. “The osmium, what do you know about it? And be careful, I can tell if you're lying. No matter how good of a soldier you think you are, I'm better.”

“So, you're a soldier?” she made another attempt to direct the course of the conversation.

“The osmium. How do you use it?”

“Thought you figured that out for yourself.”

“Indulge me.”

She wanted to refuse, but she couldn't. The man knew too much already. He knew her employer, their names, their position. And to protect them, to protect the world, she had no choice but to give the information that he desired. “It needs a protective coating,” she revealed. “It enhances energy output, often to disastrous degrees.”

Scott considered her words carefully. While that was true, the process of actually melding the osmium was labor intensive and highly unstable. “How do you process it?” he asked.

Frustrated by more questions – especially ones that he already knew the answer to – she glared at him for long moments which only caused him to take another step forward. Failing to deepen her voice, she replied, “How should I know?”

“You're lying to me,” he breathed, taking yet another step forward. She held her ground, watching as he again wrapped his dirty fingers around the bars. “You're lying to me, Sella,” he sang and suddenly bashed his head against the bars.

Shocked, the woman stumbled backwards with hands in the air. “I'm not,” she promised, but another bang, another song, and she knew that Smith was not convinced. “I didn't see much,” her voice wavered. “I only know that it has to be melted. I don't know the temp; I don't know the additives.”

He sang to her again. “You know more than that, Sella.” A third bang against the bars, this time producing a tiny trickle of blood on the side of his forehead. “Tell me what you know.” The keys to the cell jangled against the iron rods, calling her attention to the fact that he could, indeed, get to her if he so desired. She noticed the knife, the chains, the braided ropes of hair that lined his belt. “Sella!” his voice became louder, another bash against the bars. “Tell me what you know!”

Reeling from the boom of his voice, she stumbled and fell, tears breaching her eyes, trailing down cheeks. She wasn't supposed to be like this. She was trained. She'd been through mission after mission. She wasn't supposed to break, yet nothing terrified her more than the man outside of her cage. “I just know about the melting. I don't know why it reacts the way that it does. How it can be so powerful. I was never close enough to the lab until you came along.” 

He wasn't happy with her answer. His fingers tickled against the bloody knife on his belt, an angry scowl upon his face. She'd seen him fight against Myard. There was no way that she could take him down. He was too trained, too strong. “I'm the telling the truth,” she begged. “I don't know how the osmium works. I just trained soliders. That's all I did. Myard took care of all of that. Myard was the only one to know about the osmium process! ”

Then, as if nothing had happened, Smith nodded, the scowl disappearing and his face becoming calm again. “I believe you.” He perched his glasses atop his nose and left without a further word.

That night, as Scott dissected the plants and pieced them together into something else, Logan watched from above reading a short note in tiny, scripted letters. 'We're almost done,' it said.


	12. The Things We Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean meets a dead end in her search for Scott.

The world was dark, cramped up and ill-fitting. Gone was the place that Jean Grey used to snug herself into, hiding from the overwhelming world. Scott's mind used to spread out like empty canvas, the palette of it's clarity hidden from view behind dark edges and corners that she refused to go. All that he was, repressed, so that she could have reprieve, rest, serenity. 

During her darker times, that mind was the only place that felt safe in all the world. Even when broken, when those dark edges twined into the landscape, she could stay there unimpeded. A burst of emotion, then quickly suffocated, drawn back and never to be felt again. 

There were times she thought to press upon these corners, to delve inside and find out all that he was hiding. She was powerful enough to do so, though his mental shields were immaculate and strong. The most tempted she had been was when he lost Nathan to an uncertain future, but even then, he had begged her not to, and she respected that. She always respected that, no matter how much it hurt him.

He'd made his mind a sacred place for her, even when the Phoenix sought to destroy her, him, and the world. That tenderness that he held there had finally allowed her to escape the firebird's grasp, but it was also because of that that she had to die. She couldn't allow Scott's mind to be tainted by her own shadows of what she'd done and what she could be. Her sacrifice was for him alone, just as his had been for her.

On most days, she could sense him in the corners of her thoughts. A memory of their psychic connection, perhaps, or maybe more so a need to return to her place in the world, she wasn't sure. But, she could sense him there, a bright red thread amongst the gray, vibrant and strong and steel. Somehow, that thread had vanished.

Using her powers, she brought out Cerebro, attuning it to her needs. Still, there was no trace. Again and again, she sought him out, and each time faced failure. Though Scott's mental shields were among the best she knew, he still wasn't strong enough to block her completely, yet he'd managed to find a way. Charles urged her to stop, if only to spare her the grief that came with losing him. “Someone's helping him,” she cried into Xavier's embrace. “Someone's hiding him from me.”

Charles took back Cerebro, placed it on his head. He wasn't as powerful as Jean, but like her, he had a profound connection to the Captain Commander, but he couldn't find the man either. “It seems likely that someone is disguising his presence from us.”

They came to the conclusion at the same time, “Emma.”

The dinner was already prepared, the smells and aromas hitting them as they entered the halls of the Hellfire Trading Club. “Dinner might be cold,” the White Queen snuffed. “I expected you fifteen minutes ago.”

Jean eyed her suspiciously, while Xavier took his seat. Immediately, Frost turned to diamond, preventing psychic intrusion. “Just in case,” she explained with a sly grin on her face. “It dulls the taste, but it keeps you out of my head.” 

With a wave of her fingers, a young waitress appeared, dressed in a flowing skirt and well-fitted bodice. Jean recognized her from the Akademos habitat. Just eighteen, the girl had wilted at the thought of fighting, though her telekinetic skills were above average. It was the terror, she had said, when Jean had spoken with her. She didn't want the nightmares. She'd found a home with Emma, apparently, and a nice one at that. Though Marvel Girl hated to admit it, the White Queen would take good care of her.

They ate in silence, their inevitable confrontation stalling words and polite conversation. Charles did attempt a few casual questions, but Emma – though usually well mannered in situations like this – did not play the part. Perhaps it was the diamond form, or, as Jean suspected, it had more to do with the purpose of why the visitors had come. 

The White Queen was an enigma to her – part vulture, part philanthropist. She was both friend and foe, a curse and a blessing. Often she had tried to pry into the woman's mind, but Emma was always ready for her, even at the oddest of moments. A quick glance in the Green Lagoon; a brief flicker in the Council meetings; teaching children in Akademos. Emma was quicker with her mental shields than Jean ever was, but then the red-head's overwhelming power came naturally to her while the blonde had to fight for every bit of expanse she had. Marvel Girl was simply not as refined, and she often wondered, if she had had Emma's finesse, if the Phoenix would have swallowed her whole like it did.

Emma lorded her mastery over Jean, or so it seemed to her, but then again, the White Queen didn't have to contend with Omega level powers that could break a person with a single slip. Grey didn't have the capacity or time to study as Frost did; she had to spend her waking hours hoping to keep herself under control. 

Especially when it came to Cyclops.

The White Queen grinned, as if knowing what was going on in Marvel Girl's head. It sent a shiver down Jean's spine and she quickly returned to eating. There were times when she was sure that Frost hated her so intensely that she had poisoned Scott against her. There were other times when she just wanted to be the woman's friend.

While Storm was her best friend, and she couldn't imagine her life without her, the weather goddess – as powerful as she was – did not understand the intricacies of telepathy, and the harm it could cause to a psyche. From people projecting their emotions, to forgetting to block and suddenly hearing very alarming thoughts, to the temptation of molding a mind into something so much better. She could do more for the world – erase hatred, prejudice. She could embark upon a mission to change the minds of all those men and women who used their closed hearts to justify their harmful ways – force them to do kind things. To feed people. To shelter people. To be comforting and loving. It would only take a few words, a few simple well-placed thoughts, and the world would be a better place, much like her father had wanted before he died. 

But, Xavier taught her that it was wrong to even want such a thing. While Scott never questioned it, she did. After all, what good were her powers if she couldn't use them.

“Free will,” Scott would tell her late at night when the mansion had gone silent. “We can't believe ourselves gods and goddesses; we are simply humans with extra abilities.” A page straight from the Xavier playbook, Jean would tease, but in the end, she accepted that he was right.

Jean looked up at Emma, who'd barely touched her meal. She felt selfish, vehement. The woman before her was dirt and heaven all at the same time. More than anything, she wanted Emma to like her, to be friends with her, to stop this childish competition between them. But, the White Queen was closed off to such anxieties, preferring to flow her own way with or without admonishment from the Council.

Marvel Girl wished she had that strength. To look Xavier in the eye and tell him that he was out of bounds. But, through all of her conditioning, her childhood, her love of Scott and beyond, she didn't have it. Instead, she ate decisively, chewing on marinated carrots and tender pork, smacking her lips against clotted cream and strawberry jam. She wasn't who she was supposed to be. She wasn't strong and impervious as per Charles' will. She wasn't the saint that Logan and Scott had made her out to be. She was a woman with an appetite. A woman who enjoyed the things that Emma Frost surrounded herself in – the clothing, the food, the landscape that seemed to coalesce around her needs. 

Jean wished upon everything that she'd had the strength to make that her own. Though she enjoyed the meadows and trees and natural things that Krakoa had to offer, the lavishness of the Hellfire Trading Company had her whimpering in dream. “Emma, you set a very fine table,” she finally said, taking her last sip of wine. Immediately, the glass was filled by the young woman whom Emma had taken under her wing. She'd barely had a chance to smile and give thanks before the dinner was cleared away and talks were in order.

“I don't know where he is,” Emma revealed – still in diamond form. “I know that's why you've come, but it's not something I know.”

“You knew that he was dead,” Xavier was quick to point out.

“Before he blocked me, yes.” Emma shrugged, snapped her fingers. An array of desserts were presented before them. Jean couldn't help but choose one, while Charles eschewed them all. Emma – instead of a desert – prescribed another bottle of wine, on happenstance that they wouldn't read her mind anymore and let her fade into humanity.

“A wonderful vintage,” she revealed, holding the bottle of sweet wine in her hands. “If you want to play offense, I can certainly continue in this form, but I'd rather taste this in it's full force than half.”

Neither Jean nor Xavier argued with her.

The slow turn from diamond to flesh was remarkable. Both beautiful, both beholding. She was unlike anything Jean had ever seen. So pretty, so bold. Her lips were perfect, her breasts upholding. A slight chin and high cheekbones. Jean had a pleasant look, or so she decided. She didn't consider herself ugly, but compared to the White Queen and all her money spent on a perfect body, she couldn't help but be jealous. “Your lips. Did you have them done?” Grey asked, a sneer on her lips.

“Not since you died.”

Jean had nothing to say after that. Though her blood boiled, though the extent of herself made her question her own sanity, she kept quiet and watched the White Queen through green-eyed jealousy. 

“So, what brings you here, Charles?”

Xavier – having learned his hard edge lessons about emotions from Cyclops – turned to her. Cerebro masking half of his face, he'd learned to tame his lips and jaw, to release them from intention. “You know why I'm here, Emma.”

“Of course,” she said, a half grin marking her cheek. “But, I've already answered your question.”

“You're playing games.”

“Nonsense. If I knew where he was, I'd tell you.” She returned to diamond form. “Truly, if I were masking his whereabouts, you'd be able to find him now, wouldn't you?”

Jean, through her ultimate reach, spread herself across the Earth with those words. So many gray threads, half lived lives, anger and sadness, and those brief moments of happiness. So many thoughts and feelings and things that she had to rifle through in search of that one red thread. Almost overwhelmed, she came up empty. “You're not hiding him.” Saddened, she looked to the table.

Xavier placed his hand upon her shoulder, a comforting touch to the woman he thought of as a daughter. “How long has he been hiding from you?” he asked Emma.

“Since the Council meeting.” Frost leaned back in her chair, her lean elegant legs crossed. “Are you worried that he's died again?” The question came off like a knife on a whet stone, a screech building up to deft sharpness.

Charles knew the danger of trying to calculate the woman before him. Witty, sly, she had long held her own against his wishes, including his wishes for Scott. 

The White Queen had imprinted herself upon the fragile man, left devastated after his possession by Apocalypse. With slow caresses and meaningful words, she drew Cyclops out from underneath Xavier's protective umbrella, and proved to him that he _could_ be the leader of the X-men and eventually the mutant race.

Charles knew firsthand the bite of that tongue of hers, after having been chastised again and again for trying to interfere with the new direction Summers was taking in not just his life, but also in the leadership of mutantkind. Humiliated, the older man would often find himself alone on the shores of Utopia feeling useless and worthless, and in many ways, he still blamed her for that.

“Charles, come now, we're not rehashing those old wounds, are we?” She tapped her head. “You were projecting.” He looked to Jean and the younger woman nodded.

Jean had not been alive when the mutants moved off the shores of California and onto the remnants of Asteroid M. Though she'd seen the struggles in Cyclops' mind, he'd blocked her from the hard truths that lay behind the scenes. She'd felt none of it, other than the sickness that took him from the world. Cold hard facts, that's all he'd given her.

She realized now, that it was the first time that he was pulled away from her.

“Emma, we need to know if he's okay,” Grey spoke, her voice slight. Green eyes looked up at Emma, waiting for another spate of cruelty, but to her surprise, the White Queen softened.

“If you can't find him with Cerebro, then there is no way I can help you.” She returned to flesh and bone, her face so calm and sympathetic. “I've been trying to track both Scott and Logan since he left, but I've found nothing on either one of them.”

“Maybe we should send in a team,” Jean said. “To the slavers' base. We know where that is.”

Emma was quick to remind her. “It was the Council's decision to let him handle this on his own. If you want to reverse that decision, then we need to reconvene the Council and vote for approval.”

“Emma--”

“No,” Charles interrupted. “She's right. We no longer govern on our own, Jean. We have to set examples for the rest of our nation, so it would behoove us to follow the proper channels.”

“But, that could take days,” Jean pleaded. “If they're in trouble--”

Xavier once again soothed her with a hand on her shoulder. “Yes, it will. But, remember, Krakoans are now immortal. There is no need to worry.”

She was broken. She was possessed of a power that could bring all of humanity to their knees, and yet, she couldn't find the one man she loved more than anything else in the world. Silently, Jean left the halls of the White Queen and made her way back to the moon.

The Summer House proved unsettling in its quietness. Alex and Nathan played chess in the living room, with Nathan winning and grinning like a Cheshire cat about beating his uncle. Soon that quiet would turn to ribbing and excessive teasing, but only after the king was toppled onto the black and white board.

Gabriel lounged in his room, reading books to catch up on all of the life that he missed growing up in space, and then losing himself to the great tear. Out of all of them – the entire Summer House – she felt the most pity for the boy. He knew even less about the love of parents than her husband; knew only coldness and a need to prove himself. And, even then, he failed. But, she did not reach out to him, did not talk to him, and she didn't know why. Something about him seemed unreachable, even to her.

In the kitchen, she heard the chattering of teacups, and a whiff of a giggle. She recognized that soothing voice as Storm's. The woman had been somewhat distant since the Council meeting. Though she smiled and spent time with Jean, she had put up a wall. “It's good to see you,” Jean said with a broad smile as Ororo stood up to hug her. The woman towered over the red-head, but in her current state – placidity and serenity – she offered up no intimidation.

“I came to see you,” Munroe explained taking a sip and setting the cup gently back down on the plate. “Tea?” she asked. “It's a wonderful blend that Kitty managed to bring for me from Taiwan. It's very floral.”

“Yes, please,” Marvel Girl nodded. Though she noticed Rachel's silence, she chose to ignore it in favor of the visit from her friend. “So, what brings you to the moon?”

Rachel returned with the cup of tea and excused herself, citing that she had X-factor business to attend to, and that she didn't wish to intrude. Politely, she waved to both women and stepped away.

'Ro studied her friend, her pale blue eyes slowly revealing their worry. “I heard that you've been unable to find Scott and Logan.”

It wasn't the conversation that Jean was expecting. “Charles is calling a Council meeting. We may be sending in a team.”

Storm nodded. “That seems wise, though a meeting would certainly delay their rescue.”

Grey shrugged. “It is what it is, I suppose.” Disheartened, she dipped her teabag in and out of the water, listless and wordless. “You're mad at me, aren't you?” she accused, not seeking her friend's eyes. 

The silence hurt as Ororo weighed her words. “You acted out of heartbreak,” she finally said, her long, slender fingers pushing back silky white hair from her shoulders. “That much I can understand.”

“But, you're still angry with me.”

“You can't force someone to love you, my dearest friend.”

The words stung like a thousand bees rummaging through her heart. She felt the pain lurch up from her toes, making her instantly dizzy as the world shifted in and out of pulse. For a second, she felt her control crack, and her insurmountable energy flowing out into the world. Her love, her memories, her ache. It bled from her in an instant before quickly being sealed back up again. After a deep, controlling breath, she looked up to see what damage she had done.

Ororo Munroe rarely cried. Though compassionate and wise and empathetic, she rarely let herself break down for the same reason that Jean held her own self back – her powers. Her powers could effect the very world that they lived in, spurring storms and demolishing whole cities should she let herself ago. But, here she was with tears dripping down her cheeks.

“'Ro?”

In that one instant, the whole of Krakoa understood her pain, including Gabriel, Alex and Nathan who now stood behind her, their eyes opened and shocked. Their mouths agape. “Mom?”

“Scott's with Logan?” Alex choked out, his face aghast and confused. “Is this what that damn Council meeting was about?” All Havok could remember was the cold, smoldering anger that seeped beneath his brother's skin when he returned to the moon that night. The silence, the steel-clenched jaw. 

Horrified, green eyes searched the weather goddess' face, then turned to see her son and brothers-in-law waiting for her to answer. “I'm sorry,” she quickly said, and repeated herself several times before Munroe brushed her hand with her own. “I lost control,” she explained. “I promise I won't do it again.”

Before she could leave, Alex grabbed her arm. “My brother's with Logan?” 

Jean nodded, and then looked at her son who seemed almost terrified by the prospect. His emotions swirled outside of himself, still not practiced or adept enough at hiding his psychic thoughts. They were too easy to read, and Jean couldn't help herself. 

On one hand, her son had seen it coming. He'd seen the relationship develop between the two through the scope of a futuristic rifle. He'd seen it through the window as his father graced his fingers across the older mutant's jaw. The kiss had been sudden, something he wasn't expecting. He had looked away. 

At the time, he felt that his father had finally succumbed to the loneliness of his life. That Logan was there, willing, and provided a more stable partnership than most. Cable didn't mind the hairy man, not at all. He was wise, protective. His father couldn't really do better, not as broken as he was, especially in light of his resurrection into a world without the X-men and a mutant-ending pathogen on the way. 

Cyclops needed help to carry the burden, and Logan was the best man for the job.

When Jean and Scott were reunited, however, his views of Logan changed. He was the interloper, and as his father began to distant himself from Wolverine, all seemed to fall into place. He loved his parents, and wanted them to both be happy. The only way for that to happen, however, was pushing the older man out of the way.

But, now, knowing that they were still together, feeling how heart broken his mother was, his thoughts were a mix of anger, confusion, and his own intense ache as he fought against his earlier instincts about his father and the other man. He'd seen them as good for each other, but now that his mom was in the mix, he had no idea what to feel. “I think I need some air,” her son said quietly, code for going to the arena, finding someone to fight it out against. He was very much like his father in that respect; always so stoic and walled off – preferring to war it out within himself rather than give confidence in someone else.

Jean watched him go, ashamed of herself at once for having lost control, but in some way relieved because someone – everyone – finally understood her pain.

Then, she faced Alex.

Alex was not the stoic creature that his brother was, no matter how hard he tried to be. But, he did have psychic shields – not as strong as Scott's, but she couldn't feel out his thoughts and emotions as easily as she could her son's. The younger Summers' face tilted this way and that with a flurry of emotions, causing her to stare at him wide eyed as he fought to find his words. “Is that what the meeting was about?” he asked again, his voice low and dangerous.

“We can't speak of Council meetings,” Storm was quick to jump in, putting herself as a buffer between her friend and the building pressure of Havok. A quick look to Gabe – to make sure this was not a dual threat – and he was simply unsure of what to think. The boy didn't really know his brothers or their lives or what all of this meant. He only knew that Scott was in trouble and that Alex was going to defend him. 

“This one apparently involves my brother, and I won't--”

“You knew he was cheating on me!” Jean suddenly lashed out him, a finger to his chest. 

Alex kept hold of his wavering restraint, even as Grey poked him again and again, her green eyes flaring, and a not-so-gentle push against his psychic defenses. “You need to stay back,” he warned. 

“You helped him, didn't you?”

“You need to stay back,” Alex said again, his body beginning to glow with the increasing rage. “You know I lose control.”

Marvel Girl laughed. “Oh, so do I.”

The teacup clued Alex into the sudden shift in Grey's temper. The rattling and sudden cracks that leaked the still warm tea out and onto the table. Then there was the bent spoon, the rush of books, the shaking of the outer windows that protected them from the cold of the moon's surface.

But, as much as she tried, she couldn't intimidate the blonde man, and as much as she hated to admit, in her state, she couldn't face down both Summers' brothers without destroying half the world below them. Ororo's hand on her shoulder calmed her down, but it took many, many breaths before any of them were able to speak once again.

Finally, “We can't talk about meetings of the Quiet Council,” Storm reiterated, a pacific smile on her face. Leaving the three to stare each other down, she quietly cleaned up the kitchen and the books. “But, we can talk about other things,” she offered, finally realizing that the stare-down wasn't going to end without some intervention.

Gabriel looked amused now, shaking his head, nearly laughing. “I think you should let Scott sleep with whomever he wants. He is an adult.”

“He's my husband,” Grey snapped.

“Then divorce him.” The answer seemed so simple to the youngest Summers brother. A flippant shrug and he wandered back to his room, no longer concerned with the tremendous ache that Jean had shared with them minutes earlier.

“You're not married, Jean,” Alex reminded her once his brother had left. A bit calmer, but still on edge, Marvel Girl could see the energy pulsing in his veins. He could barely control his powers, especially here in space. He absorbed the cosmic energy at a much faster rate, bombarded by the shortened distance to the stars. Too many times, he had to leave Krakoa just to release. And, unlike her, there was no refinery or solid will that could stop it. “Your wedding vows ended on death. I was there.”

Jean felt the pang of his words, just as she did with Emma's. “Our love never ended,” she pointed out with indigence. “He just needs time to adjust to me being alive again.”

Seeing Alex flare again, Munroe stepped between them. “Jean, perhaps you'd like to make more tea.”  
Once gone, she spoke to Alex. “Did you not feel her heart?”

“Yes.”

“Then give her time to comprehend it.”

Alex stormed through the Gate, leaving Ororo with Jean. “You need to make a decision.”

“I already have,” Jean replied. “I'm keeping my husband.”

Later that night, as she changed into her pajamas, she listened to the sounds of sleep. Her children tucked into their rooms; Gabriel skittering about with a bottle of alcohol in his hands. Alex had never come home, preferring to spend his night Lorna – a relationship that desperately needed repair, in her opinion. Perhaps if he had his own, then he would stay out of hers.

Worried, she opened her mind to the Earth below, to Krakoa, to the place that the Gate kept her connected. She could feel the island's joy at the small crabs that danced across his shores, the night songs of the birds, the lapping of the ocean. Krakoa was at peace with himself. 

But, others weren't. 

She wondered idly if she'd done it on purpose. Some subconscious part of herself. Some part of herself that wanted to hold onto her husband so badly that she willingly lost that second of control. If she'd let her heart out to all those people now trying to put her ache behind them and find rest. 

She had sympathizers now; people who would flock to her side. Who would defend her honor; who would push at Logan and force him to let go of her husband.

And, Grey felt sick at the thought. Her stomach churned, bringing up sour bile. She stopped over the toilet for an hour as the idea of what she'd done curled over her again and again. Even if it was subconscious, or unconscious, a break in control, there was no excuse for letting others in on her private relationships. There was no reason for her to want revenge upon a very good man who had been there for mutants almost as long as she had. 

There was no reconciling the idea that she wanted others to hate Scott Summers. 

Because in the end, that's what she had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you scottxlogan for reading this chapter before I posted. Jean's POV is not easy for me, and you definitely made more comfortable in posting this. Thank you.


	13. Culmination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins.

The first gunshot rang through the desert at three in the morning. Followed by a second, and then a third. 

Scott jolted awake, the machine he had been building toppling to the floor. He cursed under his breath, gingerly picking the thing up and inspecting it. Logan had figured out the day before that it was a scrambler, meant to erase data from black boxes and microchips in the computers making the data unreadable. 

Turning his attention back to the bed that he'd refused for days now, the Captain Commander slumped across the neatly folded blankets, his glass-eyed stare on the braids that he had collected. The hum of the inhibitors could still be heard throughout the halls of the slavers' compound even though they were no longer needed.

It was his fault that they were dead.

Squinting to see the hedge of his soldering, the Captain Commander of Krakoa's forces ignored the echo that spread out across the sands. With steady hands, he returned to the small flame, welding together another chip onto the intricate green motherboard, and sighing. 

From his position in the vents, Logan could see the silver streaks of osmium laced within the fuses and wires. This machine would be very powerful indeed, but his attention on the box left too many things unchecked. The deaths of more soldiers being the first of them. Myard's death was an oversight, an accident that Cyclops could not have foretold, but after whipping Mayfield into a fury of conspiracies and paranoia, the subsequent deaths stained Summers' hands like ink.

Scott was not happy when Logan dropped from the ceiling. Even less happy when his lover spoke. “You need to stop this, Slim,” the older man said. His voice was a quiet, rasped whisper in case the guards returned. 

Cyclops ignored him.

“He's killing them all,” a frustrated Wolverine continued, taking a damning step forward. When Scott still refused to face him, the older mutant reached out and forced the contact. Grabbing his shoulder, he forcibly twistied the leader around and he was uninhibited by the face of a grotesque monster in his criticism. “This has to end now. Before you lose your soul to it.”

In some ways, Logan was thankful for the image inducer. It made easier to condemn Summers, to see his actions for what they were – condoning the death of a hundred humans, of mutants, of the lopping off of Sella's hands. The whole thing had gone too far, and throughout it all, Summers had kept up that stoic, wordless demeanor, never flinching at the cost of his actions. “Call in the team,” the older mutant demanded. “Not even Roth is worth this.”

“You're wrong.”

“Cyke, you can't continue to--”

“I won't let them find her.” The sternness to his voice was both hollow and deadly. Logan hoped it was lack of sleep, that this subtle rage underneath his lover's skin was nothing more than too much pressure and too few resources. But, another part of him doubted. Summers was always a stubborn bastard, and once his mind was set on something, the path would remain unchanged.

Wolverine considered making his stand, but the last time he did – left the man alone without his loyalty and esteem – the world nearly came to an end. He'd never forgotten that moment when Cyclops had lost himself to the Phoenix and killed Xavier. All of those years of pent up pain came bursting forth, the sound he made – that rage and heartache, loneliness, shame, guilt – was anything other than human. Anything other than the pure, indomitable shattering of a soul. That sound still echoed in his dreams, and that pure red flash of flame and contempt seared his mind's eye, drove nails into his already fevered nightmares. He would wake up in a sweat – both hot and cold – and the recognition that he had helped break the man into pieces had never left him.

“Please, Slim,” he said, softening his tone. “This needs to end.” He smoothed his hand across the younger mutant's broad shoulders, then thumb over jaw in a tender sweep. The moment intimate, heartfelt, both needy and calming. “You can't shoulder this on your own.”

When Cyclops withdrew, Logan felt his heart sink. The flutters of emotions over the mirage of Rick Smith were so like his lover's. That barely imperceptible turn of mouth, the tension above the brow line. The hard muscles of jaw and clenching of teeth. And those eyes. They showed nothing but distance and walls and all other things that made Summers' life miserable. “Scottie,” Logan said even softer, again with the skin-to-skin contact, moving up and over cheekbone, taking in the large dark circles under Rick Smith's eyes. Oh, how he wished these were Scott's autumn eyes. To see them again, after so many years. To delve inside of them and drown. He wanted nothing more. 

He tugged his hands into his lover's chestnut hair, drawing him in closer for a gentle touch of lips that never happened. At the last moment, Scott withdrew, returning to the scrambler. “It will be over soon,” he promised. “It's almost finished.”

“This isn't worth it, Scott,” he whispered, trying his best to regain Summers' attention, but he failed. “Losing you is not worth this.”

“I'm fine, Wolverine.” The code name put up yet another wall between them. “I will tell you when it's time.”

“Scott--”

“Cyclops. We're on mission.”

The shorter mutant froze, watching hopelessly as Scott picked up another piece of his puzzle and began, once again, to work on the box. Wolverine sat for long moments in silence. Rebuffed, hurt, he questioned his role in all of this, whether it was worth it. Whether he should once again move on and let the man crumble. “You don't mean that.”

“I do.”

“Scott.” He received an irritated look in return. “Please.” When no answer came other than knitted brows and scowl, he raised himself to standing and stared down at the man. “What if I'm not here? What if I leave?”

After a long silence, “Then I'll finish this on my own.”

“You're destroying yourself again, Slim. I can't watch this--”

“I'm keeping us alive!” Scott hissed, keeping his voice low, but his vehemence apparent. “Why do always refuse to see that?”

The harsh rebuke pushed Wolverine a step back. Eyes wild with worry, he looked at the man he loved more than life itself and shook his head. “I know what you're trying to do, Slim, but--”

“Cyclops,” the other man spat, eyes narrow with spite.

Logan brushed his hand into his unruly black hair, scratching just long enough to give himself a breath and let the redness fade from Scott's angered cheekbones. “Cyclops,” he relented quietly and started slinking back to the grate. 

Back inside the ceiling, he watched those long, slender fingers work their magic on the scrambler, all the while wondering when all this would be over. He wondered if Summers understood that he was breaking again or if he was so stubborn that he couldn't see the effects the mission had on him. Sleepless nights were normal for the Captain Commander, but not like this. Hours of silence were normal, but not like this. Quiet planning, walls and distance were common, but not like this. 

Scott was too close to the edge, and Wolverine couldn't seem to pull him back.

Cramped up and cold from the air ducts, Logan felt the shift of his blood slow and clot and jam his veins with heart attacks and aneurysms. But even through the wrenching pain of dying over and over again, he kept his watch on Scott Summers below with a heavy heart and sinking stomach.

The guards knocked early in the morning, giving Rick Smith enough time to hide the machine in his pocket and steady himself after yet another sleepless night. Wolverine noted how the scrambler edged out in Scott's pocket. At any moment, he could be frisked, captured, discovered. So, as he followed that well-worn path to the meeting room, Logan followed, watching the ground below carefully.

Eldridge Mayfield was more than excited. “I think I've found them all,” he crowed. “Every last one of them.” Breathless, he pulled out a chair for his companion, ushering him to sit with an energy Cyclops had never seen from the red haired man. “And, we've got miners.”

“You didn't kill them all?” the stranger asked dryly.

“No, just the worst of them.”

“And, the other bases?”

Mayfield's crazed smile only got wider. “I did as you suggested and blew the things up.” He handed Cyclops aerial pictures of the exploded bases. “Hit with a couple of bombs. Easier to keep everything contained this way.”

“From here?” Summers followed up. The Commander nodded. “We're staging everything here, then?” Another nod. “Well done,” he said quietly. 

With a relaxed sigh, Mayfield leaned back in his chair, tipping his head back towards his shoulders. Another breath – a deep one that rejuvenated him against his paranoid insomnia – and he peered back up at Smith. “We'll have to rebuild the regiment.”

“How many are left?”

“Five hundred. Give or take. Three techs. But, the miners. They are such hard workers. We've been finding osmium all morning.” Two thousand soldiers had been arraigned and sent to the mines, all stripped of weapons and chained. 

“That makes my job a lot easier,” Rick smirked. 

“I'll start recruiting --”

“No.” The stranger stood, taking a strong stance. Above, Wolverine watched in awe. 

“What?”

“I said no,” Scott repeated. He cracked his neck, digging into the pocket of his too-long coat, pulling out a small metal box, coated with osmium. 

Mayfield eyed him suspiciously. “What is that?”

“A weapon of sorts.”

“We can't kill the mutants with so few--”

“This isn't intended to kill the mutants.” With the touch of a small button on the topside of the machine, a white light pulsed like a heartbeat from the insides, breaking down the osmium walls to reveal a network of audio and visual blockers. Glasses on to minimize the effects, he smiled as that light spread like a shaft of moon across the base, it's booming sound breaking windows and shutting down the electricity. 

Rippling across the base, every computer, every screen faded to black and then a blue-screen scroll that listed operating error after operating error once their innate power sources kicked in. All of the information had been subsequently lost, and no amount of code-digging would restore it.

Mayfield – on the ground – kept his eyes covered for several minutes after the onslaught. In the distance the sound of armed guards could be heard in the winding hallways. “What the hell did you do?” the Commander asked quietly at first, then repeated himself again and again, his words growing louder each time. Then, he finally opened his eyes.

Scott fucking Summers.

Green eyes blinking, mouth stuttering, Mayfield paled and shrunk back from the ghostly man. “I killed you,” he said with surprise. “I made sure you died.”

“Death doesn't want me,” Cyke replied grimly, and turned to the sound of soldiers in the door. Guns at ready, he was immediately surrounded. “Wolverine, now would be a good time to wrap this up.”

Still disarrayed by the events, by how fast everything had happened and without warning, Logan took several seconds to hear the command. But, when he did, he was on the floor, fighting as many soldiers as he could. In the din of noise, he could hear Mayfield swearing that he'd killed the older mutant, too.

Wolverine took a dozen shocks and bullets for Cyclops. “Wolverine, fight them, not me,” Summers barked, kicking his long leg out to knock several guards from their feet. It was rare that he used his optic beams in close combat situations. It was too easy to do irreparable harm.

There was only time that Logan could recall those optic blasts being used to maim someone, and that was when Magneto clogged the iron in Jean Grey's brain and killed her in the process. Scott had flown into an unhinged rage, barely missing the man's brain functions by millimeters, still conscious enough of his own morals that he didn't kill the man outright. Or, as he would later surmise, it was not so much his morals, as it was Xavier's, and that Chuck had forced the error.

Even later than that, Scott would reveal that he would have died a thousand times over if it would have saved Jean from that pain. Even after he'd fallen in love with Logan, he would have sacrificed himself for her. “She's too important,” he had said in a long talk in a secret meadow of Krakoa. He picked up a lilac bloom, tracing velvet petals between his thumb and forefinger, contemplating his words. “She always was.”

“You're important, too --”

“Not like her. To wield that much power, to hold it in. Even without the Phoenix, the things she must do to remain in control. She could save the world on her own, if she wanted. She doesn't actually need us.”

The words were riddled with guilt and shame. “Slim, you're needed here more than you think. You need to give yourself credit --”

“If I lost you, I don't know what I'd do.” If the confession was a sidestep, Logan couldn't tell at the time. All he knew was that he was surrounded by the man's arms, caught up in a passionate kiss, with hands roaming wild through his hair.

He had breathed then, pushed Scott back while still retaining touch. “You need--”

“I need you.” The words came with a softer kiss, slow and filled with love – a deep and quiet love that warmed Wolverine from the inside out. Letting Scott be his guide, he leaned back into the mound of lilac petals, feeling the smoothness beneath his skin. Long fingers discovered the older mutant's torso, trailing the length, then back to the neck for a tender, barely-there touch. There was no need to talk anymore, not with Summers pecking kisses on his pulse and earlobes, notching his knee in between Logan's thighs to signal his intent.

The shirt was removed under the plastering of deep, wet, hungry kisses that broke only when shirt reached neck. Scott devoured him, little by little, tasting and teasing and pulling out elicit moans that only the island would ever hear. Painstakingly, the Captain Commander of the Krakoan forces nudged down the tattered jeans of Wolverine, trailing slick kisses across abdomen. “I need you,” he spoke again, a deliberately frantic kiss.

Nude, Logan wanted nothing more than to tear at Scott's clothes, to rid him of these final vestiges that would keep them apart. With each snikt of claw or grasp of hand, Scott would hush him back down with feather-soft touches and soothing words. He talked of flesh and love and all things that warmed him from the inside out. Cyke didn't even need to strip himself, his words alone had been enough for the older mutant's release. 

Scott sat back and chuckled at his wiry-haired lover, pleased that he was so easily satisfied. Logan only laid there, breathless and still reeling. It felt so good to be away from it all, just the two of them. In love.

He wondered now, in the midst of battle, if things could ever return to that time. If he would ever hear that quiet laugh again. 

Cyclops had managed to break away from the soldiers that surrounded them, took to blasting low-intensity beams at feet and knees, breaking bones along the way, but doing his best not to kill. “We'll lock them up later!” he yelled across the room at the older mutant, who continued to maim his victims.

The battle was furious, but over. The men and women lay unconscious, some in pools of blood or shattered bones. Mayfield stared at the wreckage as Wolverine and Cyclops bound the wrists and ankles of the soldiers. Their guns were kicked off to a corner, and finally, Mayfield was approached.

“I knew you were a traitor,” he smiled viciously, then broke out into a chilling laugh.

As Logan bound the Commander's wrists, Scott looked over his shoulder to the hallway and lost his breath in the absolute silence of it all. “Wolverine,” he said quietly, his visor still gazing at the door.

The older mutant watched his Captain Commander carefully, following his red-eye stare and then focusing, himself, on the lack of noise outside. “You didn't kill them,” Summers breathed with both a mixture of relief and wariness.

Eldridge's laughing stopped cold. “You really think I'd destroy my entire army because of you?”

Scott's face was as still as death, but Logan could still sense the undoubted confidence that came with his experience as a leader since his childhood. “When did you figure it out?”

“When you stopped me from killing Sella.” The first guard appeared in the doorway holding one of the osmium rifles. “It took a bit to piece it together, but when I did, it all came together so easily.” Another guard entered, holding the same rifle. Carefully, she crossed the room, releasing her Commander from the plastic ties that kept him immobile. “It was just a waiting game after that. For you to make your move. Of course, I had no idea that you were Cyclops, but that's beside the point.”

“Not really, no,” Summers offered with a tiny hint of a smile. “If you had known that it was me, you would have been better prepared.”

The blast came first – a wide mid-force optic beam that bashed the soldiers into the wall and threw Mayfield against the chemical showers. Cyclops called for Wolverine, who proceeded to clear a path through the door. “Those are osmium weapons!” Mayfield called out weakly, still stunned by the blast. “You'll never survive.”

“You forget, Commander,” Scott replied evenly. The sound of a failed trigger echoed through the chamber. “I designed those weapons.”

Mayfield argued, “I used the original designs.”

“Which you left in my hands.”

Another round of empty triggers. Wolverine looked to his leader, and the Captain Commander smiled. “Have at it.”

The cackle that came from Logan was delightful, if unexpected. Sharp claws plowed through weaponry and muscles, taking care not to aim for vital points or mortally wound these stupid soldiers. Behind him, Scott followed with cuffs, blasting those who meant to do his lover harm from behind with optic blasts that shattered bones and left them to the floor.

It was an unfair fight, to be sure, but one that both men were happy with. 

The noise after, however, was startling. A sudden loudness, a reprieve followed by an echo, and Scott fell forward. Logan looked up to see Mayfield – who'd gotten out of his binds – holding a single rifle. “This time, he's dead,” the man said, aiming again at the fallen mutant. 

Logan immediately rushed to Scott's side, shielding him from the second bullet, only to hear the rifle reloaded – and this time, according to the silver sheen – with an osmium bullet. “I tested this one,” Mayfield explained quietly. “Before he came in to destroy our plans. This is actually one that we built on our own. It worked, Wolverine.” He paused, re-aiming the gun to Logan's head. “You'd be surprised what this thin sheet of ore can do the destructiveness of a single bullet. I wonder if you'll survive?”

The mutant snarled, taking a broad step forward and holding out his claws in front of his face. The scope followed him where ever he leaned – to the right, to the left – so, there was no avoiding it. Logan either had to trust that his healing factor was going to save him, or he had to find a way out of this. He looked over his shoulder at Scott, thereby bludgeoning his battle instincts for a moment. 

The bullet rang out before he head a chance to decide – an unwise move on his part to dally. He couldn't dodge in time, couldn't even see it, but suddenly, he hit the floor. A red beam, and Mayfield was pushed back into the hallway, bouncing three times thanks to a well-timed optic blast. The failed Commander languished in the pain of ripped tendons and tattered bones. Bleeding profusely, he had to lay still so as not to puncture vital organs or worsen the damage. 

Logan was quick to his feet, running the distance and making sure that Eldridge was out of the fight. Near astonished, he looked at the taller mutant shocked that he'd used such force against a human. “Slim?”

Scott rolled forward, holding his shoulder, the blood dripping down his clothing, his face pale with pain. Logan ran to him, sliding down on knees to hold his companion upright. “Scott?”

“Cyclops. We're on--”

“Fuck that,” Logan spat, upset that the man still had that uniform sense about him. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I've had worse.” Though he couldn't move his arm, he was still relieved that the ordeal was finally over. “We need to contact Hill.”

“Not yet,” the shorter man said, feathering back sweat damp hair. “Let me take a look at you. It's been a while.” He nudged Summers' chin up, staring kindly into visor. “I love you.” Scott struggled to remove himself from Logan's hold. Wolverine only chuckled. “It's okay. You don't have to be strong in front of me. I know you're in pain, and it's okay to show me.”

“Wolverine, we've got a mission--”

“Fuck the mission. Let me have a moment here. It's over,” he whispered, thankful. Again, he nudged Scott up to look at him, his left hand moving to hair with a gentle scrape. “Breathe, Slim. It's okay.”

The kiss never happened. Scott immediately turn, forced himself out of the shorter mutant's grasp. “Scottie?”

“We can't do this... Wolverine.”

“Why?”

“Because we can't?”

“Why?”

“Because it's against the law.”

It took several minutes for those words to sink in. For Logan's blue eyes to turn again to shivering-in-pain-Scott to question the sheer madness of what he had just said. “Slim? What do you mean, against the law?”

Silence. 

“Scott?”

“I'll explain it later. We're still on mission.”

Logan pushed him back to the floor, using his bleeding shoulder as hostage. “No, you'll tell me now. What the hell are you talking about, Slim?” His words were angry, the seething barely held in check.

“We don't have time--”

“Then we'll make time.” It didn't take long for Wolverine to reach Mayfield's position, and it only took one claw to the cranium to make sure that he never got up again. “We can go about this all day, One-eye. Each and every one of them. Tell me what the hell you're talking about.”

Holding his shoulder, Scott tried to stand up, but the blood loss was already getting to him. “Please, Logan--”

A second guard met her end.

“Logan--”

A third.

The berzerker rage – the animal, the predator – was coming to the top of Wolverine's blood. Against his will, or so Scott told himself. But those eyes – once blue – were becoming red – the whites, the iris. His should-be-lover's breathing was erratic, shallow. The sounds he made were closer to growls and heaves than anything human. “I can only be with Jean,” Scott said shamefully, only to watch the beast flip around and stare ominously at him. “I have to produce children with Jean.”

The stark confession dumbfounded the older man. “You knew this? You knew all of this?” he pleaded. “You didn't tell me?”

“You were supposed to leave.”

“But, I didn't, and you hid this from me?”

“Logan --”

“You... You lied to me.”

The Captain Commander offered no more words to asuage his lover. Instead, he rose to his unsteady feet, and journeyed back to his room. There, lying in wait, was the single transmitter still connected to Hill's hellicarrier. Logan followed at a distance, leaning in the doorway, still unsure of what Scott intended to do. He wanted to have it out with the taller mutant, to yell and scream, accuse him of lies and cheating, and all else he could think of, but that resolve, that drive to finish the mission, kept him silent.

“I need you to destroy the computers,” Scott finally spoke when he finished transmitting the message to Hill. 

“And what are you going to do?” 

“Everything else.”

Before Logan could argue, Scott sprinted off into the hallway, leaving Logan alone with the pile of bodies and a wiped out electrical system. Destroying the computers throughout the buildings was easy enough – a few swipes here, a few there, and the fires that raged were hot with leaked fluid and undoused electrical malfunctions. He could see Cyclops in the distance dragging bound bodies through the hallway towards the stairs. “You shouldn't be doing that in your condition,” Wolverine hollered after him, but his partner was undeterred. 

The electric reset itself before he could speak again, the alarms blaring and the fires getting worse. With the din of attack in the air, he knew that more soldiers would come. The only thing that he could do was hope they got the paths cleared in time in order to make way for the mess. 

The soldiers were hauled to the prison floor where the inhibitor hummed, and suddenly Logan was worried. “Cyke, the soldiers --”

“Don't worry. It hasn't worked since you faked your death. I didn't leave it with enough power to run continuously.”

“But, your glasses--”

“Personal inhibitor,” he explained, his fingers dangling across one of the small metal medallions on his belt. “Courtesy of Forge.”

Then, the whole thing made sense. The Captain Commander had planned this all from the start – every single aspect. From keeping his own powers in check, to allowing Logan's healing factor to stay intact. He ran circles around Mayfield and his crew – double thinking, rethinking, and even planning to get caught. The only way to save all of these soldiers – after what had happened with Trenton Myard – was to slowly reveal himself as the traitor. To let Mayfield find his weakness, thereby saving the prisoners, but drawing enough of a delay to allow the battle to happen in stages. Every single aspect – even the empty prison cells, and all of the mutant blood on his hands, had been planned for and executed. “Damn,” he whispered, staring at his bleeding lover. “You're something else.”

The fearful thing, however, was that he'd planned to do this by himself. Logan's return was surprising, and Wolverine wondered if death – once again – had been part of the plan. Summers wasn't worried about his wounded shoulder, that he was bleeding out, that if he didn't hurry and get it patched up, that he would in fact die. Of course, that was par for the course with the man, but this time seemed more nefarious. It once again boiled down to his faith in the Five and his heedless hope that he would always be resurrected.

“You needed me here, Slim,” he said aloud, a blue-shaded side-eye to the taller mutant. “You couldn't have done this without me.”

“I could have,” Scott returned quietly.

“No. No, you needed me.”

The silence was endless until they both heard the parade of footsteps in the hallways above. “Can you get back up into the vents?” the leader asked.

“Not from here.”

“I guess we attack head on then.”

They lined themselves at each side of the steps, with both staring up at the door. It wasn't long before it opened and the soldiers started filling the area. “At least it will be a shorter trip to the cells,” Scott quipped before unleashing his blast. 

Fighting alongside Cyclops could be boring during long-range battles. As the soldiers stepped in, he raised his visor. They tumbled down the steps. Rinse and repeat. It took several minutes before one broke through to the bottom of the stairs, and Logan went to work immediately. Relishing the fight, he refused to brandish his claws, and instead struck the man with his adamantium laced fists while Scott continued his knock-out from the top.

They finally got smart though, the soldiers. Retreating to the vents themselves, returning to the lab, the halls went silent. “See, you need me,” Logan chuckled. But, his lover didn't return the joviality. A grim scowl, followed by the sudden paling of his features, he stumbled backwards, catching himself on the wall. Wolverine quickly took his weight, lowering him to the floor. “Damn it.”

He tore pieces of cloth from the jackets of the soldiers, pressed his hand upon the wound, and bandaged that shoulder tightly. “You're going to have to let me finish this,” he said quietly as Scott went in and out of consciousness. “You're just going to have trust me.”

As he pounced up the stairs, he could smell the soldiers above him, and hear the delicate sound of hair-trigger fingers. He wondered if they would try more of the osmium bullets, or if they'd managed to get their hands on the regular ones that wouldn't explode in their faces. 

As he felt the first bullet rip through the side of his head, bouncing off his metal coated skull, he growled and gnashed his teeth, feeling the predator rile up inside of him as the bullets continued to pelt down from above. They stung, and shredded him. Automatic weapons that ripped through the air shaft, but what the soldiers didn't account for was their weight and the hashed through vents. Soon, the first one fell through and met Logan's claws in an instant. 

The rampage was on after that. 

Grabbing hold of the broken metal, Logan clawed his way into the ceiling. All over, he heard calls into coms of his location, the bullets that singed through air, the scrambling of soldiers trying to find an exit. A bullet from below – striking his stomach and leaking acid out into his other organs gave him pause, made him sick before the wound healed. Another struck him, and another. One in the soft of his chin, another in his right hand. There were just too many of them, but again, they failed their strategy, finally shooting him down from the vents and he fell to the floor in a maelstrom of fight and fists.

Fifty of them had gathered, their bullets flying, and finally, a grenade was thrown into the mix and the soldiers scattered. When it blew up, Wolverine raged as the skin melted from his face and hands. But, he didn't stop. Half-skinned and smelling of char, he raced through the burn and found purchase on the first soldier he encountered. Claws to shoulder, then at knees, the woman fell to the ground screaming in pain. Another grenade, and he barely managed to push her away in time to save her life.

What he hadn't realized is that some of the old osmium weapons – those built from Abbie's designs still existed. Scott had most probably realized it, but he hadn't. And the electric punch that he got to the back of his head caused him to fall forward and black out momentarily. Again and again, that force punched at him, eating holes in his flesh and lungs before he was able to kick himself out of its grasp and hack the man's fist from his arm. The man whoozed with shock, reeling back and falling to the ground.

“Fuck,” Logan cried when he spotted another of those nasty weapons in the background of a dozen soldiers. And, for the first time, he wished that Scott was here, if only to put some distance between himself and the enemies. They moved quicker than his adamantium laced bones. They were wary of him, wild as he was and rabid. He was losing the fight to keep himself whole, while they were slowly gaining the upper hand with better strategy and their years of training. 

“Come back,” he heard in his head. “Come back to me.” The words came from so long ago. Years. The voice was saddened, burdened. He was sure it came with tears, but his heart had been too volatile to care.

“Fuck you, Slim,” he replied, refusing to recount the man's sins for a third time in that phone call. He hadn't understood why Scott continued to call him. All of the care that he'd had for Cyclops had gone the way of Charles Xavier – dead and buried. There was nothing else in his heart for Summers other than coldness and seething hatred. 

The thought – that horrible thought – caused Logan to regain his footing, to bring himself back to reality, if only to prove to Scott that he'd been forgiven, that Wolverine would do anything to protect him, that the taller mutant would no longer have to do this alone. He pushed his way through the bullets and the crowd, and found the fist sized weapon that had ruptured his heart, and like before, took it along with the hand that held it. 

He slashed and pounded and kicked and bit and yelled until suddenly, the crowd was gone, lying at his feet, a mash of too-pained, too-torn up men and women who no longer had the will to fight. 

He went through the compound then, destroying any last remnants of computer, osmium prototypes, blueprints and plans. He burned everything that he could, and what couldn't burn, he shredded with his claws. Hours passed before he finally shut off the alarm, and found himself in a silent, blood-filled building. Then, he went outside to finish the job.

Roaming back through the halls, he zip tied the soldiers, and slowly made his way back to Scott's room. A communicator, his bag, the braids. Anything that he felt would be tied to his companion, he brought with him down into the basement. Cyke still lay unconscious, barely waking when Logan hovered over him, a gentle brush through sweat damp hair. “Hey, let's get out of here.” He leaned in for a kiss, but Scott stopped him, pressing that calloused palm into the older mutant's chest.

“It's the against the law, Logan,” he reminded the other man, doing his best to sit up and look through his things. 

“Fuck the law,” the shorter man growled, once again pressing in for a kiss.

Scott stopped him again. Sternly, and desperately, he said, “No.”

Logan's heart shredded in that moment, the weight settling into the pit of his stomach. To watch his lover avert his gaze, to clench his hands to white, to bite his lip, to let the first tremor of emotion in weeks etch out on his face. Scott stared at the braids in his hand, his hands trembling. Wolverine had no choice but to lean back on haunches and watch as his partner bottled everything up again. “We need to contact Hill,” Summers finally said, holding up the last of the plants.

Out in the desert air, things felt cleaner. Over. Finished. Scott looked to the sky, waiting for the sounds of SHIELD's arrival. Explosions could be heard in the base, the malfunctioning electronics finally giving into their destroyed nature. Logan wanted to leave, but Scott said to wait. “We need to deal with this first. I don't think the other bases are destroyed,” he commanded, “And there are other things we need to figure out before we return to Krakoa.”

“Like this stupid, fucking law?”

“No,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Abbie. You said you knew a place.”

“Yeah.” 

“We're going to take her there.”

“Now?”

“I don't see why we'd put it off.”

Fury and Hill arrived just short of an hour later, having been some distance away on the hellicarrier. They brought with them half the army at their disposal. “You're late,” Logan remarked sourly, keeping Scott in balance on his shoulder. 

“I should have guessed that it was the two of you,” Hill replied, just as bitter. “You destroyed three years worth of --”

“They were killing mutants,” Scott broke in, contained and cold. “And, you knew it.”

“We had suspicions,” she tried to bargain. “Our contact --”

“She's in the basement,” Wolverine warned them before Scott got anymore upset. “Along with a lot of others.

Fury shook his head. “You're going to use this against us, aren't you? The osmium, the--”

“No,” Scott said quietly. “We don't need this kind of underhanded --”

“It's all been destroyed,” the shorter mutant jumped in. “You won't be able to threaten us with it ever again.”

Fury laughed. “The osmium could prove --”

“Yeah, well, too bad for that. I destroyed that, too.” Logan nodded to the desert behind the base. “Didn't take long. Wasn't much left.”

“Definitely not enough for what you were planning,” Scott added.

Another laugh. Fury eyed the Captain Commander of the Krakoan forces, his scrutiny almost like Xavier's – peering into false bravado and exhaustion as if unraveling walls by the merest glance. “And just what do you think we were planning, boy?”

Ignoring the insult, Summers answered,“You need a weapon that can hold us at bay. You need something that can threaten us if we get any stronger. You're afraid. You always have been, and there's nothing that we, mutants, can do to make you realize that all we want is peace.” Cyclops' words hit home. Not just for the SHIELD commanders, but also for Logan. “You let us die. You let us be experimented on. Children. They were killing children.”

Maria's rebuttal was instant. “It wasn't us who killed 54 mutants in an hour. It wasn't us that rampaged through labs and cells --”

“Didn't you though?” Cyke rasped. “Letting it happen doesn't resolve you of responsibility, Maria. How many mutants were killed before we stepped in? How many did you let die while you tried to gain information on a serum and a weapons system that could potentially keep mutants in check?”

Fury came to stand between Scott and Maria, hoping for a more vicious exchange, but the argument didn't happen. “Your slavers are incapacitated in the base. The prisoners have been sent home. The information you sought is deleted, and the ore you allowed these bastard to kill for is gone,” Scott continued quietly. “Now it's time for you to do your jobs and actually use your station for the good of mankind. I have the coordinates of the other compounds. Do what you're supposed to do instead of--”

“Let the medics take a look at that before you go,” Fury interrupted. Sending Hill to check out the base, he brought the medics forward. “You don't have the full picture of what we do, Summers, and you never will. But, there's one thing that will never be questioned. We don't murder in cold blood.”  
Spinning on heel, Fury left the mutants with the medics. 

With Scott bandaged, they returned to the shore where a SHIELD ship was ready to take them home. “We need to go to Madripoor,” Scott explained to the captain, and though it was a departure from his orders from Fury, he agreed to it if only because of his fear of Wolverine.

The days passed slowly. Scott was healing, Logan cooked. The conversations were few, with Cyke trying to keep his distance and Wolverine still pondering what this new law was all about. Inside he fumed at the idea that his lover had to forgo his own feelings and return to Jean, but then at the same time, he wondered why Scott had given in to it. If he'd truly wanted Logan to begin with, surely, he would have fought against the law and kept his autonomy. The more he tried to question Scott about the whole ordeal, the quieter the man got, and by the time they reached Madripoor, they hadn't spoken in an entire day.

Though Wolverine thought the younger mutant should rest, Scott forged on, finding a runner ship to take them back to the safe house. Another day of travel through hot sands and a cold, silent night, and they finally made it back to Cable's hide-a-way. Abbie greeted them with surprise.

“You died,” she gasped, embracing Scott with such fervor that Wolverine couldn't help but be jealous. “Logan asked me. I saw you die.”

“I got better,” was all Scott could manage. Lurching off to the bedroom, he slept the rest of the day. 

Wolverine and Roth were left alone. “Are you hungry?” she asked him, offering up a spate of MRE's and juices. They shared a pasta meal, drank some coffee, and made small talk about her time there. She hadn't gotten through the video collection, relying on old childhood favorites for comfort, rather than watching anything new. She read a bit, listened to music. “But, it was lonely,” she explained. “I haven't felt this lonely in a long time.”

“Yong Lee meant a lot to you,” Logan surmised, trying his best to converse with her without questions.

“Yeah, he did,” she agreed. “If I could wish for anything, I'd want him near.”

Cyclops had mentioned as much before they left, but watching the woman now – especially after having lost Scott to a damnable law – he understood how she felt. He was already feeling that solitary state, missing his lover so deeply that it literally hurt inside of his chest. With every breath, there was an ache that stole down through his cold, metal bones reminding him that the younger mutant would never warm them again.

Abbie fell silent when Logan stopped responding. She watched him as he absently chewed on his meal, her worry growing by the minute. “Ask me,” she finally said, barely touching the other mutant's arm in the process. “You're upset. I give you permission to ask me a question.”

“No, darling,” he responded. “I don't want to put you through that again.”

“It's okay. You guys just saved the world. You deserve an answer.”

Against his better judgment, Logan nodded and asked, nearly choking with sadness in the process, “What the hell is the law that's keeping Scott away from me?”

Roth paused, the answer immediately lighting blushed anger across her features. She looked at Logan with such pity that he had to avert his eyes. Trying to gather herself, she cleared her throat several times. “He's a leader of mutant kind, and because of that, and because of his marriage to Jean Grey, the Council decided that Scott has to produce children with her in order to make more Omega level mutants. If he doesn't comply, they're going to banish him, just like they did Sabretooth.”

She covered his large, rough hand with hers, seeking some sort of response, but Logan only stared at the table. “There are some on the Council who are against this, but there are --”

“Did Jean ask for this?”

“Yes.”

He slammed his fist against the table, biting his tongue against any further questions. Though it nagged at him to ask her how Scott felt about this, whether duty was more important than his love; whether Jean had done this out of revenge; where Xavier stood in all of us; he refrained from saying anything else about it. Like his former-lover, he balled it up like a sheet of foil and lodged it deep inside his heart. 

He didn't want to lose Scott for good. Didn't want him to be banished or hurt, or lost to the world again. He didn't want death, or a meaningless existence. Eventually, he looked up at her, her brown eyes still drawn with worry. “It's okay, darlin'. He'll come around. He needs me. He always has.”

The grin slight and false. “Yeah.”

“So, about Yong Lee. I believe that you know where to find him.”

“He's probably at the factory still. He'd been there for years, so I can't imagine him leaving just because of a Sentinel attack.”

“It wouldn't be too hard to pick him up and take him with us.”

Brown eyes lit with excitement. “Really?” Logan nodded. “You mean, you'd talk to him? Find out if he wants to live with me where ever you're taking me?” Before the older mutant knew it, she was on her feet with her arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “You don't understand what that means to me.” Once she brushed away the awkwardness of her sudden embrace, she settled back down. “So, tell me about where I'm going next.”

Logan painted a picturesque view of the small village. He'd lived there for some years hiding out and trying to avoid contact with Department H. Alpha Flight had been trying to find him for a month before he happened upon the place, and once there, the community was so tight-lipped that they had no clue that he was still in Canada. “They got kayaks,” he said wistfully. “They take 'em out fishing near everyday, and always need someone to man them. If your guy can learn the basics, they're sure to take him on.”

“And what about me?”

“There's a little bar in town, right next to the post office. They always need help, especially during the warmer months, because most of the town are on the boats. If you're a good worker, they'll keep you on through winter. It's not the best tavern in the world, but there's a couple of rooms upstairs for employees and a couple for guests. Small rooms, mind you. You won't be able to bring your entire life with you. Just a couple of changes of clothes, maybe a book or two. I'm sure they'd put Lee up as well—”

Abbie smiled brightly. “Is it cold there?”

Logan nodded his head from side to side. “Eh. In the winter it is. Gets downright frozen, but in the summer it's pretty pleasant. Nice views of the ocean, a good breeze. I liked it there.”

Sitting back in her chair, Abbie let the dream of the place that she would call home, but then a darkness overcame her. “What happened to Jai Kim?”

“I wouldn't worry about him anymore,” he explained. “When I found out who he was, I took care of him for good.”

“You-you killed him?”

“No,” the man chuckled. “Let's just say he won't be asking any questions ever again. He's learned the consequences of his actions. And, if he does bother you, there are a lot of fine warriors in that village who will protect you without hesitation. They're a good bunch of folks, Abbie. You'll be well taken care of.”

Relief settled down her spine, and a deep breath shook her chest. “Wanna drink?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head. “And, I don't think you should have one either.”

“I haven't had one since you left me here,” she explained. “No one to ask me questions.” She shrugged and returned to her seat. “He's going to be okay, you know. I've seen him recover from worse than this.”

Blue eyes turned to the woman across from him. Stringy hair shiny now thanks to being more settled in her skin, brown eyes brighter thanks to lack of drink – though bruises still persisted, and her nails hadn't grown back – she looked so much unlike the person he'd first met. Still, he could see the tension around her eyes, that worry that she would never escape from, and he inwardly felt guilt that she would look at him like that. “I know, darlin'. He'll be fine.”

She nodded silently, understanding that it wasn't just the wounds Scott needed to recover from, but something far deeper. However, she hesitated to ask any more questions, to dig deep into their time at the slavers' base. Logan understood though. Her fragility was still apparent. Even with Kim permanently taken care of, with a safe place to go to and the promise of Yong Lee at her side, her powers and the trauma that had come with them were far too apparent. 

In many ways, she reminded him of Jubilee – that spunky kid who joined the X-men and lost every last ounce of her innocence. She played the game, sure, a wad of gum in her mouth and a baby on her hip. She was sarcastic and ready with a smile, but all of that loss that she'd experienced in her short life time could still be seen in her trying-to-be-bright eyes. “Don't worry so much,” he said after the silence had long become uncomfortable. “I'll take care of him. Promise.”

She finally gave in – the weight of her emotions finally becoming too much. A drink and a toast to Cyclops, and afterwards, a drifting song of violins and rain. The mood had become melancholy and Wolverine had no intention, no ability, to lighten it. He couldn't entertain Abbie like she needed to be, not with his thoughts drawn to the future for himself and for his former-lover.

Scott woke that evening, drank several glasses of water and informed Logan that they would leave in the morning. The older man would make sure Abbie was safe and settled while he would seek out Yong Lee and see if he wanted to join Abbie in Canada. “I can work out the logistics of a passport for both of them, but I can't guarantee I can devise tax records without Sage's help, so--”

“Village doesn't require tax returns,” Logan interrupted before Scott flitted himself into a frenzy. He could see the exhaustion under the man's visor, the need for rest in his gaunt, pale features. The cracks in his facade were starting to show, but he'd yet to break. His composure remained intact. “Slim, this is going to work out.”

Scott nodded solemnly and returned to bed.


	14. Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott has to destroy the evidence.

The boat landed shortly before dawn, another suspicious trawler manned by deviant men and women, but it was untraceable and private, and Logan was assured that – under threat of claws and a terrible amount of pain – their whereabouts would never be spoken of.

Abbie had taken to drink on the second day of the voyage. A few glasses of rum to deal with the chattering of the soldiers and those who dared to ask her about their schemes for money and mayhem when Logan wasn't around. By the third day, she was heaving over the side of the ship, so drunk and uneasy on the rocky waters that she couldn't hold her stomach in if she'd tried. 

“Told you not to drink,” he reminded the woman. She responded with another dry heave over the side of the boat. He placed a grizzled hand on her back, made sure she didn't fall over, and when she was finally empty and free, he brought her his own special hangover cure which included pickle juice, a sip of vodka, and a squeeze of lemon. She drank the bile down – grimacing the whole time – and cursing under her breath that he would give her such a vile thing. “Ain't my fault that you went back to it. Should've stayed sober.”

“They were asking me questions,” she revealed quietly, rolling over on her side so she didn't have to face him. 

Wolverine reminded himself to hunt them down later and remove their tongues, just like he had done to Jai Kim. “Just point'em out, darlin', and they'll never ask another question again,” is all he said before she finally slept.

The days got worse and worse for her even after a significant amount spilled blood had led to a silent ship and terror. The nerves of her arrival filled her with doubts and fears. There were people in this village. She wasn't used to people.

“They're good folks,” he said. “You'll get used to them.”

“I'm not good with people.”

“Neither am I.” She didn't see the smirk that crossed his face, and if she heard the grumble of a laugh, she didn't acknowledge it. Instead, she poured them both a drink, and looked up to the sky. She looked even more desperate than she had on Madripoor. Harsher. Defeated. “Maybe you should stop drinking now,” he quieted. “Ain't no one going to ask you anything else.”

“What if they find me?”

“Who?”

“Anyone.” There were so many ways that news of her could have escaped the base. From some random asshole who told his wife about this magical mutant that they were experimenting on, or some slip of a SHIELD soldier's tongue when Sella reported back, it wasn't unthinkable that someone else would know of her existence. 

As all of the possibilities sank through Logan's core, a wrenching feeling pitted inside his stomach. With a deep breath and a slug of whiskey, he responded, “They'll protect you.”

A dry, sardonic laugh. “Oh, really? Against more slavers? Against someone like Jai Kim? Against --”

“They protected me from Department H.”

“I don't even know what that is,” she spat, brown eyes glaring and mouth twisted into a scowl. 

“I think I'm enabling you,” Logan replied, taking the bottle from her. Roth rolled her eyes. Scratching fingers through wild black hair, he related his tales of Department H. “They wanted me to be a hero,” he explained. “But they were tied to my worst enemies. The men who did this to me,” he explained, brandishing the metal claws. “Don't have all my memories of it, but I remember the pain of having my body boiled from the inside out by adamantium. I still have nightmares about it.”

Abbie listened quietly to his stories, the plainness of his voice, the lack of emotion on his face. It was as if the whole thing was some distant dream that he'd walked away from, as if it no longer had any hold over his life. “They were experimenting on you?”

“They were experimenting on a lot of mutants. We were props. We were replaceable. If we didn't follow the rules, then we were killed. Unfortunately, I'm unkillable.”

“So, you ran away.”

“Several times. Ended up in the village for years before I finally had to leave. Would've stayed forever had Weapon X not found me again. Didn't want to have what few memories I got back taken away.”

“And you expect them to protect me? Logan --”

“Weapon X is dead. I made sure of that.”

She took the bottle with her as she climbed down the stairs to her cabin. She didn't come up for air the rest of the trip, and when it ended, she could barely walk to the cargo plane. The ride was short, silent, save for the pilot who tried to make idle chitchat with the two of them. 

Pana – the tavern owner – had recommended him, not only for his willingness to fly into such wild territory, but also his loyalty to him and his non-wagging tongue. The man was known to travel in the middle of winter with dry goods and sundries for the town, and even keeping pace with the tavern's need for a consistent supply of alcohol and peanuts. Of course, it always garnered the pilot a good meal and a few nights of rest if the snow was too bad, but Pana had assured Logan that he was a good man and would never betray the village.

When the plane finally landed at the edge of town, Roth managed to stumble down the stairs and onto solid ground, still weaving from her nights of oblivion. Wolverine had to steady her to meet with Pana at the edge of the practice field. 

A stone wall of a man, he stood as tall as Scott, but with a not-nearly-as-pretty jawline, and dark, knowing eyes. The elder immediately directed a small group of men and women to help the pilot unload the plane before returning to greet Logan and Abbie. “Been a long time, friend,” he said, pulling the older mutant into a more than generous hug. “About time you came for a visit. How long's it --” He cut himself off in an instant, his smile fading. Brushing weathered hand through salt and pepper hair, he stared down at Roth trying to reorganize his thoughts. “You haven't been here in two or three years,” he said, his voice even, eyeing Logan to make sure that this was proper.

“Which is too damn long, if you ask me,” he replied with a smile, taking his friend's hand in a mighty shake. “Abbie, this is Pana. You'll be working for him.”

Unimpressed, she took his hand and slurred her own greeting. Pana's concern was shrugged off by Logan.

The practice field was a short distance to the south of the landing site. This was where the men and women of the village, young and old, trained. Here, they learned the art of catching the much relied upon whales or defending their village from beast or other predators, whoever so chose to recklessly endanger them. As the elder explained what they were doing, Roth seemed to sober up a bit and pay attention to their long strident movements and grunted thrusts. “Will I have to do that?” she asked quietly, nervous about what kind of life she was walking into.

“Not unless you want to,” the wise man smiled. “We let people make their own choices when it comes to use of their time, and we all hope that you'll find something here that will interest you other than simply working.”

There wasn't any TV up here or internet access, but there was radio most of the time. Electric was spotty in winter, but the village knew how to keep warm, keep fed, and keep their spirits up. “There's a lot of beauty in the changing of the seasons, and over the centuries, we have learned how to celebrate them. I think you'll be surprised at how little you'll miss the lower world over time.”

“You're as bad now as you were when you were a kid,” Logan laughed, staring up at his friend. “This guy,” Logan said, trying to lighten Abbie's mood, “has been like this since he was twenty something years old. Always trying to be the wise one, but all he speaks is bullshit half the time.” The two men laughed heartily, but Abbie continued to watch the practice below with doleful eyes.

Logan could smell her anxiety – a soft, bitter scent – and hear the raised thump of her heartbeat. The mixture of slowly coming to sobriety again after a days' long binge as well as the discomfort of adjusting to this new world was finally getting the best of her. “Come on,” he whispered in Abbie's ear, “Let's go see the town.”

The village was far bigger than Abbie expected. With a population just over a thousand people, the place had a sustainable economy and friendly neighbors. The dry goods store was the first building that they saw, and plenty of crates had been left on the small front stoop for the owner to unload. “You can get your necessities there,” the village elder explained. “Anything you need, Kova can probably find. He knows his craft and has a lot of suppliers.”

“Can't believe he's still alive,” Logan joked.

“Nini's mostly running the store now, but she still needs to ask her Pa for help sometimes. You remember-- Did you—Have--” the old man paused, glancing at Abbie, then to Logan. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. After long minutes of thinking, he finally found his words. “I think you met her last time you were here.”

Logan gave a squeeze to Abbie's arm, hoping that she could tell that the village wanted to work with her, but that anxious scent only became stronger. “I don't remember her, no. Memory ain't as good as it used to be.”

They walked a little further. “That's what you can save for,” Logan said, pointing to the top of the clothing shop. “There are a few other apartments here, but that's the best one. Two bedrooms, a nice kitchen. It's where I used to live.”

“Lusa remodeled it last year. Doesn't look a thing like the junk heap you left her with.” 

“Hey, I cleaned up after myself.”

“She had to air out that place for a year to get the smell out. Even the bar smells better than you,” Pana quipped, dark brow arched. Logan couldn't help but laugh.

At the end of the street, across from the meager post office, was the tavern. The biggest building on the block, it looked every bit like a place of community. Hand made pots with just blooming flowers decorated the wide, open porch. Rocking chairs and small tables for those who wanted to soak in the beauty of the mountains. Wind chimes and bird feeders, tattered weavings and other relics were nailed securely to the wall to prevent the winter weather from taking them away. Logan had helped repair the porch once when a torrential storm had torn down half the roof. It didn't take long – not with most of the village helping – but for it, he earned a free meal of rabbit stew which he had been mighty thankful for at the time.

The tavern doors swung open to a warm fire and a rush of memories. All at once, Logan could see himself sitting by the hearth in a drunken stupor, warming his feet before heading out to check the traps in the cold winter mornings. Then, it was his illustrious story telling by the bar, immortalizing his tales to half the town, jumping on the bar stool and making a damn fool of himself. He remembered Yura by the window – the most beautiful woman in town – her brown eyes still youthful, and he, himself, too enamored to speak to her. She died three years ago, and he'd still never spoken to her. 

The chatter that had been so easy when they first entered stopped, and when Logan finally came back to himself, he noticed the stares and frowns upon the faces of the crowd. They had put down their beers and card games, their brows quirked in suspicion and wariness. They didn't mind that she was a mutant, they minded that they couldn't ask her questions.

After their run-in with Department H and their subsequent spies, the villagers had become quite skittish around newcomers. Too many times, they had to hide their knowledge of Logan's whereabouts, and though no one but the elders knew the extent of Abbie's powers, to be told that they couldn't ask her questions had set them on edge.

“Give them time, darlin',” he told the woman beside him. “They're not used to outsiders.”

“They welcomed you,” she mumbled, calling out his bluff.

They moved to the back of the large room, leaving the warmth of the hearth and to the large, very old staircase. It was a flight and a half to the rooms above, leaving plenty of space below for the hootin' and hollerin' of the villagers as they poured in on those winter nights for song and dance and all things cozy. Logan hoped that Abbie would find those times, just like he did, but the still cautious looks from below made him wonder if that would ever be possible.

The box of a room met the woman's expectations with all the dreariness she had feared on the boat. A rickety old cot, a set of drawers set on an angle against the wall, a closet pole that was half pulled off the wall. “Let me guess,” she said, her breath reeking of alcohol. “You stayed here, too.”

“Yep,” Logan smiled, but she was in no mood for joking. 

Pana set down her few bags, suddenly feeling a wave of discomfort. “Bathroom's down the hall,” he explained, pointing at the door, and when she said nothing in return, he sighed. “It's not much, but it's all I can offer right now. Got too many kids sleeping --”

“No,” Abbie stopped him, standing up and stretching out her hand. “This is fine. This is all fine. I'm incredibly grateful, just really tired.” The old man checked with Logan before finally nodding and nudging himself awkwardly out the door. Roth stared after him, lost in thought. 

“Abbie, it's going to be okay.”

“Ask me if I'll be okay here,” she rasped. Her heart beat far too fast, and the acrid scent of fear now powered through the room. 

Wolverine shook his head. “No.”

“Ask me, Logan.”

“No.”

“Why?” she asked darkly, a snarl quivering against her lips.

“You don't need it. This place is safe. The only thing you need is to sober up and figure out how to live for once.” His words cut through her like razors down her spine, but she stood up to it, clenching her jaw and fists. Logan was quick to put that spite down. “If there's a problem, you come find me or Scottie. We'll leave you with a gate flower --”

“And all of Krakoa will be looking for me,” she laughed, arms in the air. Her scent had changed from worry to anger all in the space of a few seconds. “Do you know how long Scott has tried to keep me out of Xavier's hands, and now you just want me to walk up to him and tell him that I need help?”

“That's not—”

“How many of these people are going to ask me how to get rich? Or to live a long life? To find a spouse? There's a thousand people here, and you're leaving me here with--”

“Abbie!” Logan grabbed her shoulders and shook her. He hadn't noticed she was crying. “Abbie,” he repeated, softening his tone. “It's going to be okay.”

“Please ask me if I'll be safe here,” she begged quietly as he pulled her in against his chest. “Please.”

They stood there for what seemed like days, Wolverine not letting her go, not letting her fall to the ground and weep alone. She did her best to stop her tears, but they just kept coming. Years of running and hiding and being alone. This was an entirely new world for, and he didn't blame the woman for being scared. The only two people she'd ever managed to connect to throughout her life had been Scott and Yong, and Scott, himself, wasn't the best at connections. 

This would be more than difficult for her. Not only did she have to adjust to a new environment, one unlike any city or town she'd ever lived in, but for the first time since her mutant powers kicked in, she would be living around people, having to learn to communicate with them, how to talk and be steady with herself. It was a situation Logan knew all to well, having come here himself with a tatter of memories and trying to escape those who were after him. “We'll figure something out,” he said. “When Scott gets here, we'll get it all figured out.”

Cried out and overly exhausted, Roth lumped herself on the bed, half curled up against the pillows. “I wish he were here now.” 

The comment stung, but Logan took it. “I bet.”

“He's different than you are,” she explained. “He knows how to do this.”

“I'm trying my best, doll.”

“No,” she whined, her tone apologetic. “Not like that. He's done this for so long, that I know what he's going to do. He's practical,” she said, a slight, sad smile on her lips. “He never knows the place. He just makes sure I have a job, things to do. He would always bring me things like videos or games. Computers, books. He got me a paint set once and canvases. The paints were all blue because he couldn't see the colors.” Her giggle was wistful, unlike herself, almost girlish. “He tried, though. He knew it would be hard for me to make friends, but he wanted to give me a good life.”

“If I'd known --”

Abbie shook her head, her scraggly brown hair dropping down from behind her ear. “Stay low. Stay quiet. Stay out of the way. That was his motto and it worked. Most people acted like I was invisible. It wasn't until Yong that I actually wanted something different.”

“You love him a lot.”

“Yeah. Sometimes, I'm pretty sure that he loves me, too, but... well... This could all turn out so badly.”

“Yeah,” Logan said, patting her on the back. “Love usually does. But, it's still worth it. Just to know we mean something to someone for a minute or so, that's worth it.”

“Think so?”

“Know so,” he lied, avoiding thoughts of Scott as he scrambled for more words to keep her from descending into chaos again. “Look, you need to get some sleep before dinner. Word is that it's fish pie night, and Pana's recipe goes back through three generations, and you better bet that it's delicious. I'll run to town and pick you up some things. Let you get settled in.” Though uneasy, she nodded, letting him sneak out the door before her head could hit the pillow.

Town hadn't changed much since he'd last crawled through here a few years ago. A laundromat was added and a few other shops. He was pretty sure that the laundromat was Kova's idea, the penny pinching bastard, but he didn't blame him for fulfilling a need. The town deserved a little ease, and if he'd managed to save up to buy five washers and dryers, and if the electricity stayed on, then more power to him.

Miki, Anana's son, ran the clothing shop. Once just selling fabric, it now sold novelty T-shirts for the men and women who tread up here to hunt and fish, to return home and tell their stories about sacking with the Inuit, and taking down a beluga whale with nothing but a spear and their steal-cold fists. Logan laughed upon browsing the slogans, picking out one he thought Abbie would like. _Somewhere out there, there is a tree struggling to replace the oxygen you waste._ He hoped it was her type of shirt. 

Nini – at the dry goods store - greeted him, barely remembering him from his visits here. She hadn't even been born yet when he lived here – Kova being just shy of thirty and childless at the time – but his further visits gave her some recognition. “Logan, right?” she asked when he entered. Of course, it may have helped that three town meetings had been held at the tavern to inform the village of Abbie's coming. “Can I help you find anything?”

Personal allotments were the standard here. He could buy the shampoo and conditioner and other assorted things for his charge, but due to rationing, that meant he couldn't buy them for himself this month. He was okay with that, though Nini was concerned. Smiling politely, but having heard the rumors from her father, she said, “You really should take a shower.” She handed him a small travel sized body wash for free. “Many of us fly to Anchorage anymore,” she said, explaining the size, “This place is getting more and more civilized by the day. Even our phone service is better during the warmer months.”

“Must be a relief to your Pa,” he replied.

“Not so much. He misses the days when Thompson and Ericks would just show up with expected supplies. But, they're dead now, only he doesn't realize it.”

There were no doctors in the village, just a medicine woman, but no one to diagnose dementia or Alzheimer's, or any other brain disorder. Akna was good with babies and colds and sprains, but heart disease? Liver disease? She wasn't equipped. “Have you sent him down to Ottawa?”

“What's the point?” she shrugged. “They don't have a cure. And, even though my father's rich around here, we don't have the money for treatment.” It was an especially gruesome depiction of how Indigenous people were still treated. 

She rang him up without fanfare. He never once spied her wheelchair bound father in the store, and left without so much as a goodbye. He couldn't understand if he hadn't lived up to the stories that Kova had told of him, or if she blamed him for the continued hardship that the village faced.

Next, was the liquor store, another new place. It had taken over a small diner that served the best bacon and egg sandwich that he'd ever had. Three bottles of cheap, gallon whiskey for himself, and a cheap bottle of vodka for her. She would need it, he told himself, for at least a few days. Undoubtedly, someone would ask her a question, and Cyclops did say that it dulled her powers. If anything, it would be enough to settle her in, and right now, that's all that mattered. Any shakes or heaves or withdrawals could wait just a little bit longer, and then, she'd be the property of Akna.

One last stop at the phone kiosk, not a new shop as of three years ago, but still out of place. It was designed for the tourists once again, hoping to get some extra bucks from the south. Flip phones, smart phones, cards and plans. There wasn't much they didn't carry, though they still had issues in the evening with service. There was something about the winds, the Canadian government had told them, that made getting clear reception difficult. Still, they had built their towers despite the lack of need, and since then, the traffic to the village had been almost nonstop. 

Wolverine picked out a smart phone that could download a few games and stream some videos, and a plan for the rest of the year. He figured he'd be back before the plan ran out, re-up it if she didn't have the cash, put his phone and Scott's on speed-dial. It was a safety mechanism. If she wouldn't use the gate flower, then she sure as hell could use the phone. At least, that could give her some peace of mind.

By the time he got back, Roth was fast asleep, still lumped on the bed in the same position he'd left her in. She snored in her half-way inebriated state, her liver and blood still functioning to filter out the alcohol in her veins. He could smell it. The way her body reacted to it. The poison, the wretch. He wondered if he smelled like that to Scott. If that's why Scott didn't fight for him.

He picked up her two duffle bags, light as anything, and placed them on a nearby chair. Mostly clothes, thanks to Scott's thoughtfulness before they separated, but also a few odds and ends. A couple of books, a laptop, a few videos and CD's. He hadn't thought of the harsh conditions here, how the three movies he'd picked up for her wouldn't account for the lack of internet and a scattered phone service. He had tried, but this place was not somewhere that he was used to.

Putting away her things, he felt the order that Abbie was used to. Clothes and small boxes of detergent, things to keep her entertained, the odd recreation of chess packed into her bag along with a book on how to play. He had bought her shoes and socks and a carton of cigarettes. A lavender pillow case with an attached cache of the herb. There was perfume in the bag – a very expensive perfume – which Logan hadn't even thought to purchase. Slippers, a robe. All folded neatly into two duffle bags. 

Going through these things nearly killed him.

He put the bottle of vodka beside the end table next to her bed and disappeared to his own room and his three gallons of whiskey. He was sure to buy his own from the bar downstairs, or tread back to the liquor store to purchase another three gallons. A few swigs would last him until dinner, the rest of the gallon afterwards.

By the time Abbie woke up, the room was complete. Her bathroom sink, her shelves, her closet, everything she owned had been put away by Wolverine, and though initially disconcerted, she came to thank him for his efforts. “Dinner time, darlin', “ he said, the whiskey still on his breath.

She took her time getting dressed as Logan waited in the hall. She hadn't put on his shirt, but rather a soft, white T-shirt that Scott had gotten her. It was simple, and very much the man's style of dress, but one she seemed accustomed to. “You're going to love this,” he assured her, licking his lips.

The smell of the pie hit them on the half flight downstairs. Abbie's stomach rumbled, though she tried to disagree with it. Again, she peered to those down below, the same looks, the same suspicion. Her steps got slower, and no amount of whispered tactic would convince her down the stairs. “You're going to be okay,” Wolverine whispered at each pause. He told her about the people below. The lady who turned the whale fat into candles to light the nights without electricity. The man who made the spears that they fished with. The knitter of the nets. The weaver of the baskets. So many people he pointed out, but still she was hesitant. 

“Hey ho!” they heard from below. Toklo. A child when Logan first arrived at the village. Barely five, now a man. Short, stocky, he made the boats for the village and was considered by far one of the most generous men in the tundra. “Logan! You are here!” he exclaimed effortlessly, holding a pint of ale in each hand. “Come! Join me! I have a table by the fire!”

“He's a good guy,” Logan told Abbie, ushering her down the stairs a bit faster. 

The bar grew instantly quiet as she crossed the room, all of that gossip and talks of good fishing giving way to not-so-polite stares and squinted eyes. If Logan could have – without causing damage to the tavern – he would have punched each one of them and make them apologize to the woman for being so rude. 

But, then, there was Toklo.

He'd taken the liberty of ordering them beer and fish pie, and was already munching on handfuls of shell on peanuts and greasy french fries. “Come sit,” he said to Abbie, indicating the chair across from him. “I'm so glad you made it. Pana used to make this dish every Saturday, but now he only makes it once a month. Lazy old fool.”

“Hey!” Pana called from the kitchen. “You keep talking like that and I'll give your meat to the dogs.”

Toklo giggled in response, reaching out and taking Abbie's hands before she could draw them away. He paused, his look curious and tender. “You've got sad eyes,” he said softly. “There's a lot of happiness here. I hope you'll find it.”

Roth quickly pulled away from the man, avoiding his gaze and taking a mighty drink of the pint in front of her. “You'll get used to him,” Logan said with a smirk. “Takes a bit, and he'll gnaw on your nerves, but Toklo will have your back no matter what.”

Toklo was the village's boat maker, with fifteen apprentices at his mercy. He was good at his job, always learning, and a necessity to life here. He'd left the village once, crossed the border into the states, saw the deserts of Arizona. He made his way through the Heartland, working in fields and driving a taxi in New York before finally making his way back home where he belonged. His happiness was in the village, in the boats that he made, in the winter silence. And, at the hearth, where his grand tales spun wonder and magic to a captive audience whenever he could afford the time.

As Logan and Toklo caught up on their most recent goings-on, Abbie's eyes drifted through the bar. The taste of beer on her tongue, a cigarette in her mouth, the eyes that met hers quickly withdrew and went back to hushed whispers and halfhearted games of cards and checkers and whatever else they were playing. But, there was one that held her gaze. 

Corazon was another elder of the village, her long years showing on her face, and in the tremor of her hands. She rocked her chair on the other side of the fire, her dark eyes lilting in smile. 

In her lap was a half-woven basket, with long strips of sapling in a bucket of water at her side. Slowly she would push the strips in an out creating a chevron pattern with the different shades of wood. Bark and polished, dark and light, Abbie was fascinated with the process. But, dinner arrived before she could figure out the method to Corazon's works.

“This takes me back,” Logan said after the first bite. Leaning back in the chair, he savored not only the taste but the flashback to an easier time in his life. When he first arrived at the village, he'd been a broken man, both in flesh and in spirit. He'd been caught up in various traps as he'd raced through the woods, limping and leaving a trail of blood. Hungry, thirsty, wild-eyed and muttering about being hunted, being chased, the Wendigo, and other horrors. His mind was a blister ready to burst and leak out its poison, destroying the rest of his sanity. 

It was Pana who had found him. Young then, barely twenty, he poured water into the Wolverine's mouth, roasted fresh caught rabbits on sticks, sat with him for days as the madness slowly bled from him. It was finally on the eighth day that Logan was able to trust him enough to let him remove the traps and barbs and arrows. The chains that wrapped around his wrists and ankles. The cord that hung around his neck. The young man showed no surprise when the flesh healed so quickly. “There's a fire and a decent meal waiting for you, if you wish to come with me,” he had said.

“You-you don't even know my name,” Logan had balked at the offer, ready to run and find his way to a place where no one would ever find him.

“In the words of my grandfather, names are but passing things. What matters is the soul, and my friend, your soul is in need of rest.”

Toklo's boisterous laugh brought him back to the present. “He chased that bear for three days before finally giving up. Never saw a man so outwitted by a beast.”

“Hey,” Logan interrupted, immediately recognizing the story. “It's not like you had anymore luck than I did.”

“I was eight,” the younger man snubbed playfully.

The stories went on and on, and the more beer they had, the louder they became. Pana took away the dishes, Corazon laughed along with them. As the evening drew on, more people entered the tavern, pulling their chairs up to the hearth to listen to Toklo's magnificent adventures. He swore he had learned to extol his tales from the great Wolverine, having been but a child sitting on his father's lap, listening to the old mutant speak of the ghosts and goblins and other wild things that would breach the forest on cold winter nights. There had been the green man, tall as a building and stronger than fifty men that he had chased for days on end, trying to bring an end to its rampage through the forest. That tale alone had cemented in the story weaver's mind the power of words and imagery, and sent him on his life long mission to find his heart, only to find out that it was in this village where it lay.

Logan relaxed as Abbie started to take interest in the tales. Her eyes darted from the magnificent Toklo to the serenity of Corazon, then over the crowd who listened with rapt attention at every word spoken over beer and peanuts.

He could imagine staying here again. Leaving Krakoa, Scott by his side. Sitting by the fire and spinning their own tales. Of course, Summers would be quiet at first, barely saying a word, but he'd warm up to it as the stress of life faded away. He'd come to know these people, really know them, make friends with them. He'd become more open, feel less isolated. He could become Toklo's apprentice, his strategic and over focused mind being put to good use. He could be a pilot, a gardener, a carpenter. He could find himself.

And, he could also find Logan.

It wouldn't be hard for them to build a house if they wanted. Get a dog or a cat. Maybe a bird. They could build their own fire, at their own place, relax for once. Put rocking chairs on the porch, enjoy the spring and summer, watch the Northern Lights, laugh at old jokes and embarrassing mistakes. They could stop hiding, stop secreting themselves off into the hidden passages of Krakoa, and avoid the insanity of laws that didn't make sense.

They could build a life here. A good one. They could make a home among friends. He could see the kids spending time here, breathing for once. Their existence not about life or death on a daily basis, but about watching the ocean waves and the boats paddle out to the horizon.

A glimmer of hope in his heart, he couldn't wait for Scott to see this place. Maybe he would feel the same way.

The night went on, with Toklo being very careful not to allow questions, even from the youngest of them. If he saw one upon their lips, he would hush them with a finger to his own, and make his story even more bombastic in order to enchant them into silence. Standing on the table, he told the tales of Wolverine, many of them spoken in the exact words of the man himself from so long ago. Buzzed and happy, he made the watchers feel his excitement, and a subtle endearment to their new arrival. 

Many introduced themselves to Abbie that night, handshakes and hugs, a hope that her life here would be peaceful. She garnered many invites to dinner and hobbies, including Corazon who realized she was interested in the baskets she was making. “I'll teach you, if you like,” the old woman said. “Meet me down here in the morning. I'll have everything ready for us.”

Abbie's smile was true.

Logan went to bed that night with a stomach full of pie and his thoughts on Scott. He could imagine the man, his skin against his own, the ways his long fingers would curl into his hair. The taste of his lips, the smell of his cologne. He could hear that sweet chuckle that would lilt the air as Logan succumbed to the deepest reaches of his lust, one that kept the animal at bay in order to keep hearing it.

Smoothing hand down abdomen, tickling at thick dark hair before dipping lower, he gripped himself, imagining that it was Scott's lips upon him and let out a quiet moan. As the image of autumn hair bobbing up and down upon his body, the pleasure filled him, his nerves began to tighten. As he built towards climax, he dreamed of those days in the meadows, just the two of them, their limbs entangled, their voices soft. He came and disrupted the dream, but instead of euphoria there was a void where Scott should have been. He took a bottle of whiskey and drank himself to sleep.

He woke at noon the next day, coming downstairs to find Abbie at the fire with Corazon. The old woman patiently showed her how to tighten the base of her basket, showing her again and again how to weave the basic bones before finally noticing Logan. “Quite a learner, she is,” she said. “Reminds me of you.”

Days passed in much the same fashion. Abbie spent her mornings with Corazon and her evenings with Toklo. More and more, her comfort showed. She knew several names now, and had mild conversations with them. She smiled a bit more often, went to town on her own. Logan drank his nights away, his dreams of Scott unfulfilling and sad. He felt desperate, alone. “You're tired again,” Pana said over breakfast that morning. 

“Yeah.”

“Then rest.”

Abbie cheered at the cargo plane that landed the next day, running on tiptoes out to the landing. No jacket, no shoes, she'd put her basket to the floor and took off at top speed, leaving both Pana and Logan a little concerned. Logan was the next out the door, his heart thumping fast when he recognized the sound of an engine. Scott was here. Finally. Scott was here.

Nervous, Abbie folded her hands into fists and watched cross-armed as the plane landed. She held her breath as the pilot opened the hatch and descended, follow by two crew members who were there to help with cargo. Though only minutes, it felt like hours before Scott and Yong deplaned, leaving Abbie in tears of joy and Logan with a bittersweet feeling that edged against his nerves.

Cyke didn't even look at him.

A small crowd surrounded the newcomers, some hoping to get a glimpse of the notorious Scott Summers, but most hoping to have a _chat_ with Lee knowing that he had captured their dear Abbie's heart. “You hurt that woman,” Toklo warned with a smile, “and just know that I once took down a twelve foot bear with my own hands.” Others followed suit, their jocular threats mostly for the purpose of entertainment.

In just shy of a week, Abbie had already become an important part of this community, and Logan couldn't have been prouder. 

They followed the pallets back to town, the villagers already talking about celebrating the reunion of the lovers and how sweet it would be to treat them to a potluck or a dance or a night of song and traditional stories. No one noticed Logan disappear into the liquor store to find his comfort for the next few days.

By the time he got back, Abbie and Yong were eating with Toklo and Pana while a quarter of the village milled around inside, setting up the stage for dances and making sure the instruments were primed. Summers was already in bed after having a shower, the scent of his aftershave lingering in the air in the hallway. “Take a rest,” he told himself, and went back downstairs to join the others.

The night was filled with jubilation, the dancing and songs, a traditional welcoming for Abbie and Lee. There was food brought in from the entire village, with the tavern being so crowded, that the porch was in full use. It was Nini's voice that surprised him the most, having never heard her sing before. While three men danced below the stage, she raised her arms and gave praise to the heavens for the sanctity of love and the feast that they were allowed to prepare. 

Cyclops didn't join them that night, much to the disappointment of many who had looked forward to finally meeting the man. For long years they had considered him a hero, hearing about his exploits on the radio, and especially Toklo who swore he had seen the man in action when in New York. “He's just tired from the journey,” Logan made an excuse.

Summers wasn't seen until the following morning, and that was in Abbie's room, fixing up the drawers and closet pole so that the woman would find them more functional. “Coming down for breakfast?” Logan asked him. 

Without looking at him, Scott said, “I need to finish this first.”

“Want some help?”

“No.”

The rejection settled poorly into Logan's bones. 

Abbie walked Scott and Yong around town, with Logan lagging behind feeling Cyke's silence like a looming storm. She held Lee's hand, and there were many remarks about new love from the villagers that it only pushed Logan further into himself. 

Their first kiss happened on the moonlit beach of Krakoa, just beyond the trees in Akademos. Scott had initiated, cupping Logan's chin so tenderly that just the thought of it sent shivers down his spine. His lips were moist, questioning, and then he pulled back suddenly afraid of what he'd just done. “Been waiting for that for years, Slim,” he joked when the blush heated Scott's cheeks. Then on, they'd taken every moment they could spare to enjoy that simple kiss again and again, until Logan finally professed his love and Scott responded with his own.

Jealousy was a spiteful thing, and Logan's mood soured day by day. 

They returned to their rooms after another night of listening to tales and songs, the celebration having turned into a week long affair. Scott was too polite to leave, Logan was too angry to make him. He'd barely spoken five words to Logan since his arrival, and now, as they sat across from each other at the table, a lull in the music, Wolverine spoke to him directly. “We should leave tomorrow,” he said, his voice a growl. He couldn't tell if the younger mutant was looking at him or not, and that only pissed him off even more. He held his tongue until Abbie was too shaky and tired to continue.

In the hallway, he repeated himself. “We should leave tomorrow, Cyclops.” His words were meant to hurt. This time, he knew that his former lover was looking at him for sure. 

“No,” he finally responded. 

“Akna said she could help with Abbie's withdrawal symptoms,” Yong was quick to say, noticing the tension between them. “She said she could help.”

“You could have said as much, Slim.” For just a moment, Scott's breath quickened. “Come on, Slim. This silent treatment. I thought we got past that years ago.” He took a step forward. Cyke took a step back. “Talk to me.”

“Logan.”

“Tell me you love me.”

“It's against the law.”

Logan pounded his fist against the door to his room then took another step. “Damn it, that doesn't mean you can't love me. Tell me that you still love me!”

“It's against the law,” he reiterated. Each time the shorter man fought for some recognition, Scott gave a single answer. “It's against the law.” It infuriated the older mutant to no end. He howled at the top of his lungs, beat his chest, ripped at his shirt, and then turned blue eyes to Scott. “It's against the law,” Scott repeated again, firmer this time, threatening. 

Scott didn't retreat as Wolverine closed in. Abbie pulled Yong from the hallway, shut the door and locked it. The two men could hear her crying inside. “You're scaring her,” he warned the older mutant. “She's got enough happening right now --”

“Oh, so now you speak. You defend her, but not me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Logan. You need to calm down.”

“I know what I need, Slim,” he hissed. “Tell me what happened at the Council meeting. Tell me what Xavier said, how he didn't vote. Tell me how Jean cried and Mystique --”

“How--” he paused, took his own step forward bridging the gap between himself and the shorter man. “You asked Abbie,” he said, his tone incredulous and angry. Long fingers grabbed at Logan's flannel collar, pulling at the heavy mutant, face twisted with indignation. “After everything she's been through, you had the gall --”

Wolverine grabbed those slender wrists and pushed the man as hard as he could. The wall behind him splintered, and Scott lay still on the floor afraid to move as the older mutant ranged even closer. Kneeling down and violent, foaming at the mouth, Wolverine stabbed his claws to stop Cyke's retreat, leaning in close to his ear. “You killed fifty four mutants for her, but you can't even say that you love me. Fuck you, _Cyclops_.” 

Retreating to his room, Logan immediately took to the whiskey. The fresh gallons he'd bought that morning had run the store dry, but it didn't matter to him. He wasn't going to feel this. He wasn't going to feel anything. Out in the hall, he could hear Scott talking to Pana, promising to fix the wall, that it wouldn't happen again. He followed those sounds into Scott's room. He could smell the rubbing alcohol and ointment, the blood from splinters and too-hard-of-a-push. The shower, the scent of cologne, and finally, the click of lights being turned off.

Wolverine was alone. But, he wasn't going to feel it.

Sometime in the night, trying to stave off thoughts of Scott and what their life would be like in the village, he stole into Abbie's room and snatched her bottle of vodka which had remained unopened. When done with that, he went downstairs and found bourbon and gin, and felt his liver give way to disease. The ache lasted hours, his healing factor – much like Abbie's powers – muted by the alcohol. And little sleep meant he was still drunk in the morning. 

Scott came down stairs later than usual, his arms and face bearing the traces of scars from the night before. He spoke with Akna before sitting down at the table and eating breakfast. “You're drunk,” he finally said, staring coolly at the black-haired mutant. Logan, his heart nothing but ache, couldn't even reply.

The trail seemed simple enough. A well worn path dotted by pine and shrubs, the grass was moist, and the flower just blooming. It was easy enough for them to take their time, especially in those spots where the ocean spilled it's salt tainted sound out into the peace of the forest. More than once, Abbie and Yong stopped, giggling among themselves, even a sweet kiss on the cheek passed between them.

They would find the herbs along this trail to treat Abbie's withdrawal which would surely come. Already she was shaky, but nights with Toklo had staved off the worst of it thus far. Akna had given them each pictures of the flowers and grasses that she needed for tea, and said that she could make it quickly.

Logan, however, couldn't concentrate on the herbs. “Scott--”

“You're drunk.”

An hour into their walk, they'd found a handful of flowers, but the grasses and moss could only be found by the glaciers. “About another hour, I think,” Yong said, judging by the map, and forging on ahead. Scott followed after them and Logan stayed behind, his stomach churning and his eyes stinging with tears. 

Up ahead, a group of hunters approached them, kayaks in tow, and already a host of furs lumped over their shoulders. Yong greeted them first, followed by Scott who refused to let his guard down. He eyed the three men carefully, noticed their gestures and tics, and then he caught sight of Logan behind them all and dropped his head, moved back to Abbie's side. 

It was a confusing gesture, but soon Scott beckoned him up to the front with a more forceful one. “Logan knows this trail better than anyone here,” he offered.

“Oh yeah?” one of them asked.

“Yes, he does.” Abbie stopped herself, glancing in shock at Lee. Held breath, she looked over to Logan, hoping for a save.

“Been here on and off for years, bub,” he slurred. “Be happy to help.”

“How's the fishing today?” another man laughed.

“If you go fishing today, two of you will die. And you,” she said pointing towards the man in back, “will lose both your legs to frostbite.” 

“Shit,” Scott said under his breath. He pushed Abbie behind him. “Sorry friends, but today really isn't a good day to go fishing. There was a glacier crack the other day, and the ice is still floating around beneath the waters. We've heard reports that the rapids are ripping holes in boats and putting people in danger of drowning.” 

It was all a lie, but Scott uttered it with so much confidence that the men forgot Abbie's prophecy and sighed. “That's a shame. We'd been looking forward to this for a really long time.” After a brief conversation, the men left. 

Still wary of revealing her mutation to Yong Lee, she looked to Summers for help, but Logan jumped in instead. “She's been real good keeping up with the weather, Cyke. Her and Corazon sit by the radio every morning.” 

“Good to hear,” Cyclops replied, giving Wolverine the first inkling of a smile since arriving in Madripoor. It was just enough for Logan to walk beside him. He could hear Scott's pulse, faster now with proximity. 

They reached the shore about an hour later, and took a break. Yong had packed a satisfying lunch, and though Logan ate, his thoughts were only on Scott and how close the man had sat to him. He missed the confession of love between Yong and Abbie, the kiss that followed. The scattered stories about their first impressions of each other and the tales in between. The askance to disappear for a bit, spend some time alone, which Scott okayed. He missed all of it, settling himself into the rhythm of Summers' heartbeat, letting it lull him into a drunken peace.

Taking the chance, he placed his hand over top of Scott's, entwining their fingers together. The other man froze, lost his breath, and stared down at those fingers for long, tense moments. His face was alight with mixed emotions, pain and lust, hurt and comfort. There was sadness and anger, and a deep abiding love. “It's against the law,” the younger mutant said. And as quickly as that wall fell, it was back up again, and with solid breath, Scott stood and left him there, heartbroken.

“Logan,” Yong said. “We're going to go look for flowers over there.” 

The older mutant nodded absently, his eyes never leaving Scott. He stood on shaky legs, wishing above anything else that his lover would look at him, would say something to him, would do anything other than to let him go his own separate way. He wanted to kill Jean.

Still hazy from drink, he had no idea what the sound was that split his thoughts and the air around them. All he knew was that Scott started running towards it. He started running, too.

Yong stood over Abbie, a gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger. As the two mutants approached, he didn't move, didn't attempt to get away. “She's dead,” he said, as the blood trickled from the wound in her forehead. He'd shot her point blank, killed her, and as Scott put his hand to his visor, Lee put the gun to his own head. “I loved her,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I really did. You have to believe me on that. I loved her more than anything.”

Scott continued to hesitate, shocked to see Abbie dead, shocked at the amount of blood that pooled on the ground beneath her. “I'm an agent of SHIELD,” the man finally explained. “I've been assigned to her since the fall of Utopia. I was glad that you found me, Cyclops. It meant I could finish my mission.” He broke down even further, his face wrenched with sadness. 

Finally catching up with events, Logan brandished his claws. “What did you do?”

“I didn't want to,” Yong continued. “But, she was dangerous. You saw what she told those hunters. She was too dangerous to live.”

“What did you do?” Logan asked again, his blood beginning to boil.

“I was hoping she would escape. From everything. I was hoping she'd finally be happy. Please believe that. I really loved her, but she-- She just couldn't live.”

Murder in his blood, Wolverine rushed forward, but before the adamantium could swipe out and unleash his anger, Yong Lee pulled the trigger, and his body fell to the ground. Logan stood over top of the would-be lovers, their blood thick and staining each other's clothes. Somehow, he remembered Scott and looked to the man he'd called leader for decades now, a man he would follow into hell and back, and finally did.

The man's breath was slow, his face still. There was no trace of tear or ache, nothing but a cold, hard stare. The first step he took forward was assured, right, but the closer he got to Abbie, the more unsteady his gait became. 

Quietly, he knelt to her, a woman he'd known half his life, lifted her from the side of her murderer, carried her to the soft sand of the shore. He feathered back her damaged brown hair, letting her blood seep over his fingers, and began to wash the stain away. He smoothed wet hands across her face, cleansed her hands. Made sure she looked like a person. Made sure that she would go to heaven with a clean face and a fresh start. “Scottie?” Logan mouthed unheard, amazed at how tender, how broken his lover was without ever dropping the wall that shielded him from the world. 

Clean now, he laid her down upon spring's carpet, and without warning, took off his glasses and pulverized her body. Terrified, Logan avoided the ruby red glare, grabbed Cyke by the shoulders, made the man face him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“The evidence, Logan. I have to destroy the evidence.” He returned to blasting until there was nothing left. Soon, the ocean would take those drops of blood and platelets away, leaving nothing left for Sinister or some other mad scientist to work with. She would be gone. Completely gone. And she'd never come back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your help with this, tyrsdayschild. You definitely helped me over the hump.

**Author's Note:**

> https://discord.gg/6m3u9ZsN8y   
> A Scogan discord server that is a lot of fun.


End file.
